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The Shepherd to the Flowers.
Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear

Within your paly faces,
Upon the gentle wing of some calm breathing wind,

That plays amidst the plain,
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,

Be proud to touch those places !
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,

Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, Your honours of the flowery meads I pray,

You pretty daughters of the earth and sun, With mild and seemly breathing, straight display

My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone !

Vermilion roses, that with new days rise,
Display your crimson folds fresh looking fair,

Whose radiant bright disgraces
The rich adorn'd rays of roseate rising morn!

Ah, if her virgin's hand
Do pluck your purse, ere Phæbus view the land,
And veil your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn,

If chance my mistress traces
Fast by the flowers to take the summer's air,

Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting,

And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend, Whose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting,

Report fair Venus' moans to have no end ! Then may Remorse, in pitying of my smart, Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart!

Upon Gascoigne's Poem, called The Steel-glass." SWEET were the sauce would please each kind of taste ;

The life likewise was pure that never swerv’d;

For spiteful tongues, in canker'd stomachs plac'd,
Deem worst of things, which best, percase, deserv'd.

But what for that ? this medicine may suffice
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.

Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem,

Yet worthiest wights yield praise for every pain;
But envious brains do nought, or light, esteem
Such stately steps as they cannot attain :

For whoso reaps renown above the rest,
With heaps of hate shall surely be opprest.

Wherefore, to write my censure of this book,

This “ Glass of Steel" impartially doth shew
Abuses all to such as in it look,
From prince to poor ; from high estate to low.

As for the verse, who list like trade to try,
I fear me much, shall hardly reach so high!

Thirsis the Shepherd to his Pipe. LIKE desert woods, with darksome shades obscured, Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror reigneth, Such is my wounded heart, whom sorrow paineth.

The trees are fatal shafts, to death inured,
That cruel love within my breast maintaineth,
To whet my grief, when as my sorrow waineth.

The ghastly beasts my thoughts in cares assured, Which wage me war, while heart no succour gaineth, With false suspect, and fear that still remaineth.

The horrors, burning sighs, by cares procured, Which forth I send, whilst weeping eye complaineth, To cool the heat the helpless heart containeth.

But shafts, but cares, but sighs, honours unrecured,

Were nought esteemid, if, for these pains awarded,
My faithful love by her might be regarded.

Love the only price of Love.
The fairest pearls that northern seas do breed,

For precious stones from eastern coasts are sold; Nought yields the earth that from exchange is freed; Gold values all, and all things value gold.

Where goodness wants an equal change to make,
There greatness serves, or number place doth take.

No mortal thing can bear so high a price,

But that with mortal thing it may be bought ;
The corn of Sicil buys the western spice;
French wine of us, of them our cloth is sought.

No pearls, no gold, no stones, no corn, no spice,
No cloth, no wine, of love can pay the price.

What thing is love, which nought can countervail ?

Nought save itself, ev'n such a thing is love.
All worldly wealth in worth as far doth fail,
As lowest earth doth yield to heav'n above.

Divine is love, and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing, but with self.

Such is the price my loving heart would pay,

Such is the pay thy love doth claim as due.
Thy due is love, which I, poor I, essay,
In vain essay, to 'quite with friendship true:

True is my love, and true shall ever be,
And truest love is far too base for thee.

Love but thyself, and love thyself alone;

For, save thyself, none can thy love requite: All mine thou hast, but all as good as none;

My small desert must take a lower flight.

Yet if thou wilt vouchsafe my heart such bliss,
Accept it for thy prisoner, as it is.

The Shepherd's Praise of his sacred Diana. Prais'd be Diana's fair and harmless light;

Prais'd be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground; Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night ;

Prais'd be her power, by which all powers abound !

Prais'd be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods;

Prais'd be her knights, in whom true honour lives; Prais'd be that force by which she moves the floods !

Let that Diana shine, which all these gives !

In heaven, queen she is among the spheres ;

She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure; Eternity in her oft-change she bears;

She, Beauty is; by her, the fair endure.

Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;

Mortality below her orb is plac'd ;
By her the virtues of the stars down slide;

In her is Virtue's perfect image cast !

A knowledge pure it is her worth to know :
With Circes let them dwell that think not so!

The silent Loverf.
Passions are likened best to floods and streams :

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come:
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

This has been much improved from a MS. copy in a very curious collection of contemporary poetry, among Dr. Rawlinson's MSS, in the Bodleian. It is there entitled “Sir Walter Ralegh to Queene Elizabeth.”

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart !

The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,

Who sues for no compassion !

Since, if my plaints serve not to prove

The conquest of thy beauty, They come not from defect of love,

But from excess of duty.

For, knowing that I sue to serve

A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve

A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing: Where Glory recommends the grief,

Despair distrusts the healing !

Thus those desires that aim too high

For any mortal lover,
When Reason cannot make them die,

Discretion doth them cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave

The plaints that they should utter, Then your Discretion may perceive

That Silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty ; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

Deserveth double pitys !

* This stanza was, by some strange anachronism, current about seventy years ago, among the circles of fashion, as the production of the late celebrated earl of Chesterfield.

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