To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.

Drawne was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that nature gave,

The common mother that all creatures have,) Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.

A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, That God thee gave, who found it now too deere For this base world, and hath resumde it neere, To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.

Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth; The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime, [time; Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.

Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, To treat from kings with those more great than kings;

Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!

Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might:
Thy rising day saw never wofull night,

But past with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame, Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.

What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon? Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure; Oh! happie race with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy lims that bred the same,
Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried,
The Campe thy sorrow where thy bodie died,
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.

Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come;
In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe;
Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall;

Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall,
Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.

That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time!
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthelesse rime,
Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell.

SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age, [ere now, Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound,

And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; [knight; Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.

Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride,

Time crieth out, my ebbe is come; his life was my spring tide:

Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports;

Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde

A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue ever shinde,

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none, Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone;

Their losse, not him, waile they, that fill the world with cries;

Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

Now sinke of sorrow I, who live; the more the wrong;

Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose thred is al-to long,

Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe, Must spend my ever dying daies in never ending griefe.

Harts ease and onely I, like parables run on, Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and never meet in one; [cell, Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well.

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames;

Farewell sometimes enioyed, ioy; eclipsed are thy beames!

Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth;

And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting minds of woorth.

And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, [assignes;

And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie Let all, that sweete is, voyde; in me no mirth may

dwell,

Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content, farewell!

Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill,

And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,

Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held so

good a minde.

H H

THE

110

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those ioyous Birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.

And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend

115 1

120

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th' ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.

Above the rost were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,

165

170

175

That like the Twins of Iove they seem'd in sight,
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,
Receiv'd those two faire Brides, their loves delight;
Which, at th' appointed tyde,

Each one did make his Bryde

Against their brydale day, which is not long : 179 Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my

song.

Ver. 121.

shend] Put to shame, disgrace. TODD.

Ver. 174.

bauldricke] A girdle or belt. Tonn.

DARKE is the day, when Phœbus face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside;
The time, like night, depriv'd of chearfull day;
And few do write, but (ah!) too soon may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours ancient pride,
That do, for Poesie, challenge chiefest name:
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall read.
G. W. SENIOR.

AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays,
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine,
Heroicke deeds of past or present days;
Or whether, in thy lovely Mistresse praise,
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;
Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please
With rare invention, beautified by skill,
As who therein can ever ioy their fill!
O! therefore let that happy Muse proceed
To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endlesse honour shall be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
G. W. JUNIOR.

SONNET I.

HAPPY, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands,
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look,
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
And happy rymes! bath'd in the sacred brooke
Of Helicon, whence she derived is ;
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long lacked food, my heavens blis;
Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none !

SONNET II.

UNQUIET thought! whom at the first I bred
Of th' inward bale of my love-pined hart;
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art:
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood;
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart,
And also to sustayne thy selfe with food.
But, if in presence of that fayrest Proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet;
And, with meek humblesse and afflicted mood,
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, intreat:

Which if she graunt, then live, and my love cherish :

If not, die soone; and I with thee will perish.

SONNET III.

THE Soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,
Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed!
The light wherof hath kindled heavenly fyre
In my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse raysed;
That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view:
But, looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.

So when my toung would speak her praises dew,
It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;
And, when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:

Yet in my hart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.