WILLING BONDAGE.

IKE as a huntsman after weary chase
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place

With panting hounds beguiled of their prey;

So, after long pursuit and vain assay,

When I all weary had the chase forsook,

The gentle deer returned the self-same way

Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook ;
There she, beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide;
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good-will her firmly tied ;-
Strange thing, meseemed, to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.

EDMUND Spenser.

TRUE BEAUTY.

EN call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself you daily such do see;

But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me: For all the rest, however fair it be

Shall turn to nought, and lose that glorious hue;

But only that is permanent and free

From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty; that doth argue you

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; Derived from that fair Spirit from whom all true

And perfect beauty did at first proceed.

He only fair, and what He fair hath made;
All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

EDMUND Spenser.

IKE as a ship that through the ocean wide,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way,
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide,

Out of her course doth wander far astray,-
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,

Do wander now in darkness and dismay,

Through hidden perils round about me placed :
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helikè, the lodestar of my life,

Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief:
Till then I wander careful, comfortless,
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.

Edmund Spenser.

3

ITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the

skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be, that e'en in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrow tries?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there-ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

|AVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtained the prize,

Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;

Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance :
Others, because of both sides I do take

My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make.
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella looked on; and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

SIR PHILIP Sidney.

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