THE SILENT LOVER.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Wrong not sweet mistress of my heart!
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion!

Since, if my plaints were not t'approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t'exceed my duty.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection.

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing :
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing!

Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,

When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter,
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a suitor.

Silence in Love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity!

Then wrong not! dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion!

[This is a most extraordinary poem; terse, harmonious, pointed, full of ingenious turns, and often admirably expressed. It seems to have anticipated a century in its style. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.]

WHENCE COMES MY LOVE?

JOHN HARINGTON.

Whence comes my love?-O heart! disclose:
"Twas from her cheeks that shame the rose,
From lips that spoil the rubys praise,
From eyes that mock the diamonds blaze.
Whence comes my love, as freely own:
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind;
The lips, befitting words most kind;
The eyes does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say-'tis Cupid's fire!
Yet all so fair, but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak

Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek;
Yet not a heart to save my pain?

O Venus! take thy gifts again:
Make not so fair, to cause our moan,
Or make a heart thats like our own.

[Supposed to have been written by the father of the celebrated Sir John Harington. See Park's Edition of Ritson's English Songs, vol. i. p. 165. Dr. Aikin in his "Vocal Poetry," 8vo. 1810, and Geo. Ellis in his "Early English Poets," vol. 2, p. 284, have printed it as Sir John Harington's.]

A WOMAN'S FACE.

HUMFREY GIFFORD.

Born about 1550.

A woman's face is full of wiles,
Her tears are like the crocodil :
With outward cheer on thee she smiles,
When in her heart she thinks thee ill.

Her tongue still chats of this and that,
Than aspine leaf it wags more fast;
And as she talks she knows not what,
There issues many a truthless blast.

Thou far dost take thy mark amiss,

If thou think faith in them to find;
The weather-cock more constant is,
Which turns about with every wind.

I know some pepper-nosed dame
Will term me fool and saucy jack,
That dare their credit so defame,
And lay such slanders on their back:
their spite:

What though on me they pour

I may not use the gloser's trade,

I cannot say the crow is white,

But needs must call a spade a spade.

See

[From "A Poesie of Gilliflowers, eche differing from other in colour and odour, yet all sweete," London, 1580. 4to. Black Letter. Ellis's Specimens, vol. 2, p. 173.]

O FOR A BOWL OF FAT CANARY.

JOHN LYLIE [or LILLY.]

Born about 1553-Died 1600.

O for a bowl of fat Canary,

Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry,
Some nectar else from Juno's dairy;
O these draughts would make us merry!

O for a wench (I deal in faces

And in other daintier things),
Tickled am I with her embraces;
Fine dancing in such fairy rings.
O for a plump fat leg of mutton,
Veal, lamb, capon, pig and coney;
None is happy but a glutton,

None an ass but who wants money.

CHORUS.

Wines indeed, and girls are good,
But brave victuals feast the blood.
For wenches, wine and lusty cheer,

Jove would leap down to surfeit here.

[From "Alexander and Campaspe." The plays of Lilly were republished in 1632, under the title of "Six Court Comedies." See Elis's Specimens, vol. 2, p. 211.]

LOVE FOR LOVE.

FULKE GREVILLE, LORd Brooke.

Born 1554-Died 1628.

Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of those that lie asleep!
For Cupid is a merry god,

And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweep Cupid's shafts like destiny
Do causeless good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go!

What fools are they that have not known,
That Love likes no laws but his own.