Tell Charity of coldness,

Tell Law, it is contention :
And if they yield reply,
Then give them still the lie.

Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming ;

Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming :
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.

Tell Faith it's fled the city;

Tell how the country erreth ;

Tell, Manhood shakes off pity,
Tell, Virtue least preferreth :
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing,

Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet, stab at thee who will,
No stab the Soul can kill.

ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE.

THE NIGHT BEFORE HE DIED.

Cowards fear to die; but courage stout,
Rather than live in snuff, will be put out.

THE POET'S EPITAPH.1

Even such is Time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age 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,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust!

1 In some copies this is entitled "Verses said to have been found in his Bible

in the Gate-house at Westminster."

Archbishop Sancroft, who transcribed the lines, called them his "Epitaph made by himself, and given to one of his, the

night before his suffering."-(Oxford Edition, vol. viii. p. 729.)

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

(1554-1586.)

PHILIP SIDNEY, eldest son of Sir Henry Sidney, was born at Penshurst in Kent. His father, in whose arms, it is said, the young Edward VI. drew his last breath, filled during many years of Elizabeth's reign the double post of Lord Deputy of Ireland and President of the Welsh Marches, and died in 1586, only a few weeks before the death of his son. On his mother's side, Sidney was a grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and nephew of the Earl of Leicester. He was educated at Oxford, but quitted the University at seventeen; and by the time he was four and twenty he was recognised as one of Elizabeth's ablest and most trustworthy statesmen. Much of his brief life was spent in political and diplomatic business. His fortunes were linked with those of Leicester, his uncle and patron, and it was in the years 1580-83, during a period of retirement from court, when Leicester's private marriage had incensed the Queen, that Sidney's principal literary works were accomplished. In these years he wrote The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, a prose romance after the manner of Sannazaro, and interspersed with pastoral verses; also a valuable prose treatise called Apologie for Poetrie. His series of sonnets entitled Astrophel and Stella, of which Lady Rich was the real or assumed object, were probably also complete before 1583, in which year he married Frances Walsingham, and was knighted by the Queen. Sidney sat in the parliament which met during 1584 and 1585, advocating with his party a policy of active war against Philip of Spain. His project of joining Drake in an expedition against the Spaniards in the West Indies was set aside by the Queen; and in 1586 he took a command under the Earl of Leicester in the War in the Netherlands. His death occurred in the autumn of the same year from wounds received at the Assault of Zutphen. He was then only thirty-two years of age.

The high esteem in which Sidney's verses were held among his contemporaries was due chiefly to the scholarly

and methodic grace of his style. He made style a subject of study and experiment as none of our writers had till then attempted to do, and he became at an early age the centre of a group, or school, of purists in literature, young men of his own age and tastes, who gladly acknowledged him as their leader and patron. Another source of Sidney's influence was his eminently loveable and sympathetic disposition; while his premature death left a generation, still young enough to be enthusiastic, to remember his generous acts of patronage, his refined companionships and unrealised aspirations. The Arcadia, together with the Shepherd's Calendar of Spenser, dedicated by its author, in 1579, “to the noble and vertuous Gentleman, most worthy of all titles, both of learning and chevalrie, Maister Philip Sidney," established the popularity of pastoral composition in England. Some of Sidney's sonnets are models of grace, both in thought and expression; but the most faultless of them are not free from a certain cold fastidiousness. Among his songs will be

found measures of surpassing sweetness.

FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.1

NOT AT FIRST SIGHT.

Not at the first sight, nor with a dribbed2 shot
Love gave the wound, which, while I breathe, will bleed ;
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,

Till, by degrees, it had full conquest got.

I saw, and liked; I liked, but lovèd not ;

I loved, but straight did not what Love decreed :

At length, to Love's decrees I, forced, agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.

Now, even that footstep of lost liberty

Is gone; and now, like slave-born Muscovite,
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;

And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While, with a feeling skill, I paint my hell.

1 Published first in 1591.

2 A term used in archery: its exact sense is lost, but the context suggests "with a weak, ineffectual, shot."

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 languished grace,
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.1
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me :
Is constant love deemed 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?

THE UNKIND GUEST.

This night, while Sleep begins with heavy wings
To hatch2 mine eyes, and that unbitted thought
Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought
To leave the sceptre of all subject things;
The first that straight my fancy's error brings
Unto my mind is Stella's image, wrought
By Love's own self, but with so curious drought,
That she, methinks, not only shines but sings.
I start, look, hark; but what in closed-up sense
Was held, in opened sense it flies away,
Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence.
I, seeing better sights in sight's decay,
Called it anew, and wooèd Sleep again;
But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain.

A SONG.

Go, my flock, go, get you hence,
Seek a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
Fro the storms in my heart breeding,
And showers from mine eyes proceeding.

Leave a wretch in whom all wo
Can abide to keep no measure;
Merry flock, such one forego,

Unto whom mirth is displeasure,

Only rich in mischief's treasure.

Yet, alas, before you go,

Hear your woful master's story,

Which to stones I else would show :

Sorrow only then hath glory

When 'tis excellently sorry.

Stella, fiercest shepherdess,
Fiercest, but yet fairest ever ;
Stella, whom, O heavens still bless,
Though against me she persèver,
Though I bliss inherit never ;

Stella hath refusèd me!

Stella, who more love hath provèd
In this caitiff heart to be,

Then can in good ewes be movèd
To-ward lambkins best beloved.

Stella hath refused me!
Astrophel, that so well servèd,
In this pleasant Spring must see,
While in pride flowers be preservèd,
Himself only winter-stervèd.1

Why, alas, doth she then swear
That she loveth me so dearly,
Seeing me so long to bear

Coals of love that burn so clearly,
And yet leave me helpless merely?

Is that love? forsooth, I trow,
If I saw my good dog grievèd,
And a help for him did know,
My love should not be believèd,
But he were by me relieved.

No, she hates me, well-away,
Feigning love somewhat, to please me;
For she knows, if she display

All her hate, death soon would seize me,
And of hideous torments ease me.