THE Soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale: The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale: Summer is come, for every spray now springs, "I CANNOT EAT BUT LITTLE MEAT." BY BISHOP STILL, [A Convivial Song, by Bishop STILL; written about the year 1565. Little is known of the author, except that he was the writer of a play called "Gammer Gunter's Needle."] I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; And little bread shall do me stead; No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd, Back and side go bare, go bare; &c. And Tip, my wife, that as her life Even as a maltworm should, Of this jolly good ale and old.” Back and side go bare, go bare; &c. Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare; &c. "WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON !" BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. [SIR PHILIP SIDNEY was born at Penshurst, in Kent, in 1554 He was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, who became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in the reign of Elizabeth. After he had been educated at Oxford and Cambridge, he went on the Continent; and, while at Paris, was treated with the greatest distinction by the French king, But, horrified at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, as soon as the danger was over, he left that capital, where he had resided with the English Ambassador, and resumed his travels, in the course of which he distinguished himself, on various occasions, by his martial prowess. When he returned to England, he received several important appointments from the Queen. He was named as a candidate for the Crown of Poland, but the Queen refused her consent to his being elected, “lest she should lose the jewel of her times." He was sent by her to the Netherlands, to the relief of the Protestants, and there gained the battle of Lutphen in 1586; but the advantage was dearly purchased by the death of the gallant victor. His life was one scene of romance, from its commencement to its close. As he was borne from the field fainting with loss of blood, he saw a dying soldier look wistfully at a bottle of water he was putting to his lips, and resigned it to him instantly, saying, "This man's necessity is greater than mine." He was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral. Sidney's poems are, to us, cold and affected, except when he follows his own natural sentiments.] WITH how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, What may it be, that even in heavenly place |