DARKE is the day, when Phoebus face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way
So, while this muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside;
The time, like night, depriv'd of chearfull day;
And few do write, but (ah !) too soon may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours ancient pride,
That do, for poesie, challenge chiefest name :
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall read.
G. W. SENIOR.

AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays:
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine,
Heroicke deeds of past or present days,
Or whether in thy lovely mistresse praise,
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;
Thy muse hath got such grace and power to please,
With rare invention, beautified by skill,
As who therein can ever ioy their fill!
O! therefore let that happy muse proceed
To clime the hei ht of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endlesse honour shall be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
G. W. JUNIOR.

I.

HAPPY, ye leaves! when as those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands,
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look,
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close-bleeding book.
And happy rymes! bath'd in the sacred brooke
Of Helicon, whence she derived is;
When ye behold that angels blessed looke,
My soules long-lacked food, my heavens blis;

Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none!

II.

UNQUIET thought! whom at the first I bred
Of th' inward bale of my love-pined hart;
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art:
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood;
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart,
And also to sustavne thy selfe with food.
But, if in presence of that fayrest proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet;
And, with meek humblesse and afflicted mood,
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, intreat:

Which if she graunt, then live, and my love cherish:
If not, die soone; and I with thee will perish.

III.

THE SOverayne beauty which I doo admyre,
Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed!
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fyre
In my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse raysed;
That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view :
But, looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.
So when my toung would speak her praises dew,
It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;
And, when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:

Yet in my hart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

IV.

NEW yeare, forth looking out of Janus gate,
Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight:
And, bidding th' old adien, his passed date
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright:
And, calling forth out of sad Winters night

Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower,
Wils him awake, and soone about him dight
His wanten wings and darts of deadly power.
For lusty Spring now in his timely howre
Is ready to come forth, him to receive;
And warns the earth with divers colord flowre
To decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weave.
Then you, faire flowre! in whom fresh youth doth
Prepare your selfe new love to entertaine. [raine,

v.

RUDELY thou wrongest my deare harts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I doo most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envide:

For in those loftie lookes is close implide,
Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonour:
Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.
Such pride is praise; such portlinesse is honor;
That boldned innocence beares in hir eies;
And her faire countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies.

Was never in this world aught worthy tride,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

VI.

BE nought dismayd that her unmoved mind
Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
Such love, not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
The harder wonne, the firmer will abide.
The durefull oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
Is long ere it conceive the kindling fyre;
But, when it once doth burne, it doth divide
Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire.
So hard it is to kindle new desire

In gentle brest, that shall endure for ever:
Deepe is the wound, that dints the parts entire
With chaste affects that nought but death can sever;
Then thinke not long in taking little paine
To knit the knot, that ever shall remaine.

VII.

FAYRE eyes! the myrrour of my mazed hart,
What wondrous vertue is contayn'd in you,
The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart,
Into the obiect of your mighty view?
For, when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,
Then is my soule with life and love inspired
But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew,
Then do I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But, since that lyfe is more than death desyred,
Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best;
That your bright beams, of my weak eies admyred,
May kindle living fire within my brest.

Such life should be the honor of your light,
Such death the sad ensample of your might.

VIII.

MORE then most faire, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the Maker nere;

No eies but ioyes, in which al powers conspire,
That to the world naught else be counted deare;
Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;
But angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest
In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;
You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake;
You calme the storme that passion did begin,
Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak
Dark is the world, where your light shined never;
Well is he borne, that may belrold you ever.

IX.

LONG-WHILE I Sought to what I might compare
Those powrefull eies, which lighten my dark spright,
Yet find I nought on earth, to which I dare
Resemble th' ymage of their goodly light.
Not to the sun; for they doo shine by night,
Nor to the moone; for they are changed never;
Nor to the starres; for they have purer sight
Nor to the fire; for they consume not ever

Nor to the lightning; for they still persever;
Nor to the diamond; for they are more tender;
Nor unto cristall; for nought may them sever;
Nor unto glasse; such basenesse mought offend her.
Then to the Maker selfe they likest be,
Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

x.

UNRIGHTEOUS Lord of Love, what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be,
The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me?
See! how the tyrannesse doth ioy to see
The huge massacres which her eyes do make;
And humbled harts brings captive unto thee,
That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take,
But her proud hart doe thou a little shake,
And that high look, with which she doth comptroll
All this worlds pride, bow to a baser make,
And al her faults in thy black booke enroll:
That I may laugh at her in equall sort, [sport.
As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her

XI.

DAYLY when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for my truth;
She, cruell warriour, doth herselfe addresse
To battell, and the weary war renew'th;
Ne wilbe moov'd with reason, or with rewth,
To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;
But greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,
To force me live, and will not let me dy.

All paine bath end, and every war hath peace;
But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.

XII.

ONE day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies
To make a truce, and termes to entertaine:
All fearlesse then of so false enimies,
Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine.
So, as I then disarmed did remaine,
A wicked ambush which lay hidden long,
In the close covert of her guilful eyen,
Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng.
Too feeble I t' abide the brunt so strong,
Was forst to yield my selfe into their hands;
Who, me captiving streight with rigorous wrong,
Have ever since kept me in cruell bands.

So, ladie, now to you I doo complaine,
Against your eies, that iustice I may gaine.

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,
Whiles her faire face she reares up to the skie,
And to the ground her eie-lids low embaseth,
Mest goodly temperature, ye may descry;
Myld humblesse, mixt with awfull maiestie.
For, looking on the earth whence she was borne,
Her minde remembreth her mortalitie,
Whatso is fayrest shall to earth returne.

But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne
Base thing, and thinke how she to heaven may clime;
Treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne,
That hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime.
Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me;
Such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.

XIV.

RETOURNE agayne, my forces late dismayd,
Unto the siege by you abandon'd quite.
Great shame it is to leave, like one afrayd,
So faire a peece, for one repulse so light.
'Gaynst such strong castles needeth greater might
Then those small forts which ye were wont belay:
Such haughty mynds, enur'd to hardy fight,
Disdayne to vield unto the first assay.
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,
And lay incessant battery to her heart;
Playnts, prayers, vowes, ruth, sorrow, and dismay;
Those engins can the proudest love convert:

And, if those fayle, fall down and dy before her;
So dying live, and living do adore her.

XV.

YE tradefull merchants, that, with weary toyle,
Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain
And both the Indias of their treasure spoile;
What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine?
For loe, my love doth in her selfe containe
All this worlds riches that may farre be found:
If saphyres, loe, her eies be saphyres plaine;
If rubies, loe, hir lips be rubies sound;

If pearles, hir teeth be pearles, both pure and round;
If yvorie, her forehead yvory weene ;

If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
If silver, her faire hands are silver sheene:
But that which fairest is, but few behold,
Her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

XVI.

ONE day as I unwarily did gaze

On those fayre eyes, my loves immortall light;
The whiles my stonisht hart stood in amaze,
Through sweet i lusion of her lookes delight;
I mote perceive bow, in her glauncing sight,
Legions of loves with little wings did fly;
Darting their deadly arrows, fyry bright,
At every rash beholder passing by.
One of those archers closely I did spy,
Avming his arrow at my very hart:
When suddenly, with twincle of her eye,
The damzell broke his misintended dart.

Had she not so doon, sure I had bene slayne;
Yet as it was, I hardly scap't with paine.

XVII.

THE glorious pourtraict of that angels face,
Made to amaze weake mens confused skil,
And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,
What pen, what pencill, can expresse her fill?
For though he colours could devize at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,
Least, trembling, it his workmanship should spill;
Yet many wondrous things there are beside;
The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide;
The charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart;
The lovely pleasaunce; and the lofty pride;
Cannot expressed be by any art.

A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede,
That can expresse the life of things indeed.

XVIII.

THE rolling wheele that runneth often round, The hardest steele, in tract of time doth teare' And drizling drops, that often doe redound, The firmest flint doth in continuance weare:

iet cannot I, with many a drooping teare
And long intreaty, soften her hard hart;
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,
Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart;
But, when I pleade, she bids me play my part;
And, when I weep, she sayes, Teares are but water,
And, when I sigh, she sayes, I know the art;
And, when I waile, she turnes hir selfe to laughter.

So do I weepe, and way le, and pleade in vaine,
Whiles she as steele and flint doth still remayne.

XIX.

THE merry cuckow, messenger of spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded,
That warnes al lovers wayte upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with girland crouned.
With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded,
Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all, which did Loves honor rayse,
No word was heard of her that most it ought;
But she his precept proudly disobayes,
And doth his ydle message set at nought.

Therefore, O Love, unlesse she turne to thee
Ere cuckow end, let her a rebell be!

XX.

IN vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
And doe myne humbled hart before her poure;
The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
And tread my life downe in the lowly floure.
And yet the lyon that is lord of
power,
And reigneth over every beast in field,
In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure
The silly lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she, more cruell, and more salvage wylde,
Than either lyon or the lyonesse ;

Shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,
But taketh glory in her cruelnesse.

Fayrer then fayrest! let none ever say,
That ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.

Was it the worke of nature or of art,
Which tempred so the feature of her face,
That pride and meeknesse, mixt by equall part,
Doe both appeare t' adorne her beauties grace?
For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,
She to her love doth lookers eyes allure;
And, with stern countenance, back again doth chace
Their looser lookes that stir up lustes impure;
With such strange termes her eyes she doth inure,
That, with one looke, she doth my life dismay;
And with another doth it streight recure;
Her smile me drawes; her frowne me drives away.
Thus doth she traine and teach me with her lookes;
Such art of eyes I never read in bookes!

XXII.

Tis holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclynd:
Therefore, I lykewise, on so holy day,
For my sweet saynt some service fit will find.
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
In which her glori us ymage placed is;
On which my thoughts doo day and night attend,
Lyke sacred priests that never thinke amisse

WHEN I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part;
Of natures skill the onely complement ;
I honor and admire the Makers art.

But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee,
That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart;
I thinke that I a new Pandora see,
Whom all the gods in councell did agree
Into this sinfull world from heaven to send;
That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
For all their faults with which they did offend.
But, since ye are my scourge, I will intreat,
That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

XXV.

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery,
But wast and weare away in termes unsure,
'Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully!
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And show the last ensample of your pride;
Then to torment me thus with cruelty,
To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide
A close intent at last to shew me grace;
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace;

And wish that more and greater they might be,
That greater meede at last may turne to mee.

XXVI.

SWEET is the rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the iunipeer, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere;
Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough;
Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is rough;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough,
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
So every sweet with soure is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more :
For easie things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I accompt of little paine,
That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine!