ROSALIND.

Her eyes are saphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas1 they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver-crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosalind !

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm incloses,
Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Her neck, like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes :
Heigh-ho, fair Rosalind !

When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs my arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,
And I my fatal grave;

Their flight to heaven is made,
My walk on earth I have;
They free, I thrall; they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.

TO A BROKEN FLOWER.

Ah, pale and dying infant of the spring,
How rightly now do I resemble thee!

That self-same hand that thee from stalk did wring
Hath rent my breast and robbed my heart from me.

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,
Is not like those that fly about by kind;

Her feathers are of gold, she wants a mate,
And, knowing well her worth, is proud of mind;
And, whereas some do keep their birds in cage,
My Bird keeps me, and rules me as her page.

She feeds mine ear with tunes of rare delight,
Mine eye with loving looks, my heart with joy;
Where-hence I think my servitude but light,
Although in deed I suffer great annoy.

And sure it is but reason, I suppose,

He feel the prick that seeks to pluck the rose.
And who so mad as would not, with his will,
Leave liberty and life to hear her sing

Whose voice excels those harmonies that fill
Elysian fields where grows eternal spring?

If mighty Jove should hear what I have heard,
She sure were his, and all my market marred.

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,
Will flourish now ere long in bravery.

But I, alas, within whose mourning mind
The grafts of grief are only given3 to grow,
Cannot enjoy the spring which others find,
But still my will must wither all in woe.
The lusty Ver, that whilom might exchange
My grief to joy, and my delight increase,

Springs now elsewhere, and shows to me but strange;
My winter's woe, therefore, can never cease.
In other coasts his sun doth clearly shine,

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;
Night-wandering travellers, at Cynthia's sight,

Clear up their cloudy thoughts, fond fear rejecting;
But dark disdain eclipsèd hath my Sun,

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.
O happy birds, that at your pleasure may
Behold the glorious light of Sol's arrays!
Most wretched I, born in some dismal day,
That cannot see the beams my Sun displays!
My glorious Sun! in whom all virtue shrouds,
That lights the world, but shines to me in clouds.

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 of the bacon's fat to make his start-ups black and soft :
And, lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold:
Sweet growt or whig1 his bottle had, as much as it would hold;
A sheave2 of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white as
snow,

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?
I wis5 I am not; yet, that thou dost hold me in disdain
Is brim abroad, and made a jibe to all that keep this plain.
There be as quaint, at least that think themselves as quaint,

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;
And with the sun doth fold again; then, jogging home betime,
He turns a crab, or tunes a round, or sings some merry rhyme;
Nor lacks he gleeful tales, whilst round the nut-brown bowl

doth trot,

And sitteth, singing care away, till he to bed hath got.
There sleeps he soundly all the night, forgetting morrow-

cares,

1 Gruel or whey. 5 Know.

2 Loaf or slice.
6 Bruited.

3 Victualling.
7 Particular.

4 Larder, stock of food. 8 Mummy, dullard.