TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS | Charged with more crying sins than those he OF CUMBERLAND. HE that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame And with how free an eye doth he look down He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars He sees the face of right to appear as manifold checks. Which makes that whatsoever here befalls, You in the region of yourself remain, Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests, That hath secured within the brazen walls Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) Rises in peace, in innocency rests; Whilst all what malice from without procures, Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, Than being pursued; leaving to him to avenge Knowing the heart of man is set to be This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind, Of heaven, that though the world hath done his worst To put it out by discords most unkind, And this note, madam, of your worthiness LOVE IS A SICKNESS. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, A plant that most with cutting grows, More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, More we enjoy it, more it dies ; ODE. Now each creature joys the other, In the fall of silver showers; Hath her bosom decked with flowers. Whilst the greatest torch of heaven With bright ray warms Flora's lap, Making nights and days both even, Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers, quite bereaven, Wants refresh of better hap. Echo, daughter of the air, Babbling guest of rocks and hills, Knows the name of my fierce fair, And sounds the accents of my ills: Each thing pities my despair, Whilst that she her lover kills. Whilst that she, O cruel maid! Doth me and my love despise, My life's flourish is decayed, That depended on her eyes; But her will must be obeyed, And well he ends for love who dies. SONNET. I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have a time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while, And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! MICHAEL DRAYTON. MICHAEL DRAYTON was born in Warwickshire, quarians. Among his other works are "Harmoin 1563, the year before Shakespeare saw the ny of the Church," a collection of hymns; "Paslight in the same county. Very little is known torals," ," "The Barons' Wars," "England's Heroof his life, except that in 1626 he was poet laure- ical Epistles," "The Legend of Great Cromwell," ate. Nor is it known in what order his poems "The Muses' Elysium," "Nymphidia, the Court were published. The most important and best of Fairy," and "The Ballad of Agincourt." He known is the "Polyolbion," in thirty books, de- died in 1631, and was buried in Westminster scribing England, her legends, antiquities, and Abbey, where a monument was erected to his productions. It is full of fine passages, and is memory. An edition of his works was published so accurate as to be quoted as authority by anti-in London in 1752-'53, in four volumes 8vo. With Spanish yew so strong, When down their bows they threw, Not one was tardy: This while our noble king, As to o'erwhelm it; Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, With his brave brotherClarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade; Still as they ran up. Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? SONNETS. SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part! LOVE in a humor played the prodigal, And at the banquet in his drunkenness, IF he, from heaven that filched that living fire, I greatly marvel how you still go free, Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape: Thus poor thieves suffer, when the greater 'scape. Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring obroad in need and beggary; Clothed the naked, lodged this wand'ring guest. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold. |