This beautiful poem, which poffeffes a claffical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I. is printed from the 4th edition of Davifon's poems", &c. 1621. It is alfo found in a later mifcellany, intitled, "Le Prince "d'amour." 166c. 8vo.-Francis Davifon, editor of the poems above referred to, was fon of that unfortunate fecretary of State, who fuffered fo much from the affair of Mary 2 of Scots. Thefe poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a foldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by fome dear friends "anonymoi." Among them are found pieces by Sir J. Davis, the Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney, Spenfer, and other wits of thofe times.

* See the full title in vel. 2. p. 299.

In

In the fourth vol. of Dryden's Mifcellanies, this poem is attributed to Sydney Godolphin, Efq; but erroneously, being. probably written before he was born. One edit. of DaviJon's book was published in 1608. Godolphin was born in 1610, and died in 1642-3. Ath. Ox, II. 23.

T chanc'd of late a fhepherd fwain,
That went to feek his ftraying sheep,
Within a thicket on a plaín
Efpied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erfpred her face;
Her careless arms abroad were caft;
Her quiver had her pillows place;
Her breaft lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durft he do; nought durft he say;

Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy thus fees her fleep,

Whom if she wak'd he durft not see;
Behind her closely feeks to creep,

There come, he steals her fhafts away,

And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere fhe wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And fpies the fhepherd ftanding by:
Her bended bow in hafte she takes,
And at the fimple fwain lets flye.

Forth flew the fhaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain :
Yet up again forthwith he ftart,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to fee so strange a fight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; The more his wounds, the more his might,

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Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, fhe blames her skill; The bluntnefs of her fhafts fhe fears,

And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, fweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'ft not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy; the end is fmart.

Yet try fhe will, and pierce fome bare;
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast fo rare,
That made the fhepherd fenfeless stand.

3

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That

That breast the pierc'd; and through that breast 45
Love found an entry to her heart ;

At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how this gentle nymph did start ?

She runs not now; fhe fhoots no more;

Away the throws both shaft and bow:
She feeks for what the fhunn'd before,
She thinks the fhepherds hafte too flow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
What other lovers do, did they:

The god of love fate on a tree,

And laught that pleasant fight to see.

XII.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

This little moral poem was writ by Sir HENRY WOTTON, who died Provoft of Eaton, in 1639. Et. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, intitled RELIQUIE WOTTONIANA, 1651. 12mo; compared with one or two other copies.

HOW

OW happy is he born or taught,

HR

That ferveth not anothers will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And fimple truth his highest skill :

Whofe paffions not his masters are ;
Whose foul is ftill prepar'd for death;
Not ty'd unto the world with care

Of princes ear, or vulgar breath:

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his ftrong retreat;
Whofe ftate can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppreffors great:

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertaines the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from fervile bands
Of hope to rife, or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

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10

1;

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XIII. GILDEROY,