ROSALIND. Her eyes are saphires set in snow, Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud Or like the silver-crimson shroud Her lips are like two budded roses Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Her neck, like to a stately tower, When I, whilst they are singing, The thrushes seek the shade, Their flight to heaven is made, TO A BROKEN FLOWER. Ah, pale and dying infant of the spring, That self-same hand that thee from stalk did wring THOMAS WATSON. (1557?-1592.) HE was a Londoner by birth, was educated at Oxford, and became one of the most distinguished sonneteers in Elizabeth's reign. His principal work consisted of a collection of a hundred sonnets expressive of the various phases of sentiment through which a lover may be supposed to glide on his way towards renouncing for ever the heartless object of his affections. Each sonnet is called, after the manner of the time, a "passion," but it is difficult to imagine verses written in a less impassioned mood. The original title of this work was EKATOMIIAOIA or passionate Centurie of Love, Divided into two Parts: whereof the first expresseth the Author's Sufferance in Love; the latter his long Farewell to Love and all his Tyrannie. Watson was also the author of a later set of sixty sonnets, written upon the same studiously conceitful method as the "Centurie of Love." This last set, published in 1593, was called The Teares of Fancie, or Love Disdained. FROM THE PASSIONATE CENTURY OF LOVE.1 MY BIRD. My gentle Bird, which sung so sweet of late, Her feathers are of gold, she wants a mate, She feeds mine ear with tunes of rare delight, And sure it is but reason, I suppose, He feel the prick that seeks to pluck the rose. Whose voice excels those harmonies that fill If mighty Jove should hear what I have heard, FROM THE TEARS OF FANCY. IN SPRING. Behold, dear Mistress, how each pleasant green Will now renew his summer's livery; The fragrant flowers, which have not long been seen, But I, alas, within whose mourning mind Springs now elsewhere, and shows to me but strange; And comfort lend to every mould but mine. MY SUN'S ECLIPSE. Each creature joys Apollo's happy sight, And feed themselves with his fair beams reflecting; Clear up their cloudy thoughts, fond fear rejecting; Whose shining beams my wandering thoughts were guiding, For want whereof my little world is done, That I unneath 1 can stay my mind from sliding. WILLIAM WARNER. (1558-1609.) WARNER'S birthplace was London. He was born in the year of Elizabeth's accession; studied at Oxford; and became by profession an attorney. His poem of Albion's England, in thirteen books, was published in 1586, and five successive editions appeared between the years 1586 and 1602. In 1606 he produced a “Continuance” in three books, and the whole work was reprinted after his death in 1612. Albion's England may be said to have succeeded the Mirrour for Magistrates as the most popular poetical work of its period, and was intended, in accordance with a fashion which began to prevail about that time, to combine amusement and information for its readers. FROM ALBION'S ENGLAND. A SHEPHERD'S WOOING. 2 A country wench, a neat herd's-maid, where Curan kept his sheep Did feed her drove and now on her was all the shepherd's keep. 1 Scarcely. 2 From the story of Argentile and Curan, the best and oftenest quoted passage of the whole poem. He borrowed, on the working days, his holy russets oft, And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow; And whilst his pie-bald cur did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by. On hollow quills of oaten straw he pipèd melody. But, when he spyèd her, his saint, he wiped his greasy shoes, And cleared the drivel from his beard, and thus the shepherd WOOS: "I have, sweet wench, a piece of cheese as good as teeth may chaw; And bread, and wildings, sowling3 well:" and therewithal did draw His lardry.*. "Faith! thou art too elvish and too coy: Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy? that crave The match which thou, I wot not why, mayst, but mislik'st to have. How would'st thou match (for well I wot thou art a female)? Ay, I know not her that willingly with maidenhead would die. The plowman's labour hath no end, and he a churl will prove; The craftsman hath more work in hand than fitteth unto love; The merchant, trafficking abroad, suspects his wife at home; A youth will play the wanton, and an old man prove a mome.8 Then choose a shepherd! With the sun he doth his flock unfold, And all the day on hill or plain he merry chat can hold; doth trot, And sitteth, singing care away, till he to bed hath got. cares, 1 Gruel or whey. 5 Know. 2 Loaf or slice. 3 Victualling. 4 Larder, stock of food. 8 Mummy, dullard. |