Of womenkind such indeed is the love,

Or the word love abused,

Under which many childish desires

And conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.

EVEN SUCH IS TIME.

'VEN such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

(1554-1586.)

Sidney's Lyrics are gathered into a volume in the series of Rhys' Lyric Poets. The first selection below is found in the early editions of the Arcadia among other poems of Sidney's not germane to that work. Dr. Grosart ascribes it positively to the "Astrophel and Stella" series. The second occurs in the Arcadia, 1590, written 1580, although it first appears in slightly different form as quoted in Puttenham's Arte of English Poesie, 1589. The sonnets of the "Astrophel and Stella" series were written probably before 1582, and appeared in 1591. Dr. Grosart's editions of Sidney's Complete Poems are the standard modern editions.

PHILOMELA.

HE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

TH

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,.

While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her wocs, a thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth,

For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

MY

HEART-EXCHANGE.

Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

TO THE MOON.

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows 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 languisht grace,

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
That, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd 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?

LOVE IS ENOUGH.

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;

O give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case But do not will me from my love to fly.

I do not envy Aristotle's wit,

Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame,
Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

INSPIRATION.

I

NEVER drank of Aganippe well,

Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.

Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,

But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease

My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause! What, is it this? Fie, no.
How then? Sure thus it is,

Or so? Much less.

My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.

ETERNAL LOVE.

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;

And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and give us sight to see.

O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how ill becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:

Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!

SIR EDWARD DYER.

(1550?-1607.)

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS

This poem is found in MS. Rawl. 85 (date uncertain). Dyer's scanty poetic remains are included in vol. iv. of Dr. Grosart's edition of the Miscellanies of the Fuller Worthies Library.

MY mind to me a kingdom is,

Such present joys therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

That earth affords or grows by kind:

Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,

No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall:
For why? My mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soon do fall; I see that those which are aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.
Content to live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies:
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store;

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss;

I grudge not at another's pain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:

I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.