"A baron am I," said Bluebottle; "From a foreign land I come."

"I thought as much," said Web-Spinner, "Fools never stay at home!"

Says the baron, "Churl, what meaneth this? I defy ye, villain base!"

And he wished the while in his inmost heart He was safely from the place.

Web-Spinner ran and locked the door,
And a loud laugh laughed he;
With that each one on the other sprang,
And they wrestled furiously.

The baron was a man of might,

A swordsman of renown;

But the miser had the stronger arm,

And kept the baron down;
Then out he took a little cord,

From a pocket at his side,
And with many a crafty, cruel knot,
His hands and feet he tied ;

And bound him down unto the floor,
And said in savage jest,

"There's heavy work in store for you;

So baron take your rest!"

Then up and down his house he went,
Arranging dish and platter,

With a dull and heavy countenance,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,

And with many and many a desperate tug,
To hoist him up began ;

And step by step, and step by step,

He went with heavy tread;
But ere he reached the garret-door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!

Now all this while a magistrate,
Who lived in the house hard by,
Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty
Through a window privily.

So in he burst, through bolts and bars,
With a loud and thundering sound,
And vowed to burn the house with fire,
And level it with the ground.

But the wicked churl, who all his life
Had looked for such a day,

Passed through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away :

But where he went no man could tell;
'Twas said that underground,

He died a miserable death,

But his body ne'er was found.

They pulled his house down stick and stone

"For a caitiff vile as he,"

Said they, "within our quiet town

Shall not a dweller be!"

LOSS IN DELAYS.

SHUN delays, they breed remorse,
Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force;

Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee:
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingering labour comes to nought.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ;
Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure:
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,

Take thou hold upon his forehead,

When he flies, he turns no more,

And behind, his scalp is naked: Works adjourned, have many stays, Long demurs breed new delays.

Seek thy salve while sore is green,
Festered wounds ask deeper lancing;
After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing:
Time and place give best advice,
Out of season, out of price.
-ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

TO PRIMROSES.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warped, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop, and weep;

Is it for want of sleep
Or childish lullaby?

Or that

ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow, shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read :—

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

-ROBERT HERRICK.

SONG OF THE CAPTIVE.

[A captive knight is supposed to hold a dialogue in song with certain flowers growing near the walls of his prison.]

CAPTIVE.

A FLOWER that's wondrous fair I know,

My bosom holds it dear,

To seek that flower I long to go,

But am imprisoned here.