And blood allied to greatness, is alone Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, The "gallant and accomplished" LOVELACE wrote this beautiful song to his mistress, on joining the army of the King: Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, that from the nunnery I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more. His fine lines written during his incarceration, To Althea, com mence : When Love, with unconfinèd wings, hovers within my gates, His last is the finest stanza: Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; Love, the great theme of the poets, has been in these pages presented in most of its Protean aspects; but as it is classed among the noblest virtues, we can hardly have too much of it from the poets. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that "we need not ridicule a passion, which he who never felt, never was happy; and he who laughs at, never deserves to feel-a passion which has caused the change of empires and the loss of worlds-a passion which has inspired heroism and subdued avarice." Here is an airy, bird-like lyric, by HEYWOOD: Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day; Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast: O fly, make haste! See, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber; Sing round about her rosy bed, That, waking, she may wonder. LYLY's genius for lyric verse is seen in the following little Song of the Fairies: By the moon we sport and play; As we dance, the dew doth fall, Lightly as the little bee, Two by two, and three by three, And about go we, and about go we. The following exquisitely sportive lines are also by this noted Cupid and my Campaspe play'd He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows; Growing on's cheek, but none knows how, TITCHBOURNE, who was one of the victims of political despotism in 1568, wrote these quaint and touching lines the night preceding his execution: My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goods are but vain hopes of gain. My Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun, And now I live, and now my life is done! HERRICK'S lyrics are among the most sprightly and picturesque that we possess; they are fragrant with the aroma of Spring flowers. Listen to his lines addressed to "Primroses filled with morning dew:" Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Can tears Alas! you have not known that shower Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with Or warp'd, as we, years, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep: |