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And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited—not purchased, nor our own.
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

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
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms I Ay.
True, a new mistress now I chase, the first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such as you, too, shall adore ;
I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.

His fine lines written during his incarceration, T. Althea, com

Nience :

When Love, with unconfined wings, hovers within my gates,

divine Althea brings to whisper at my grates :
When I lie tangled in her hair, and fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty.

His last is the finest stanza :

Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet, take that for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty.

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;

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft,

To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,

To give my love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast :

Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush-

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow-
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,

Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,

Sing, birds, in every furrow
O Ay, make haste! See, see, she falls

Into a pretty slumber ;
Sing round about her rosy bed,

That, waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you ; to you!
And when you hear her kind reply,

Return with pleasant warblings.

Lyly's genius for lyric verse is seen in the following little Song of the Fairies :

By the moon we sport and play;
With the night begins our day :
As we dance, the dew doth fall,
Trip it, little urchins all.
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 dramatist :

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses : Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows;
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too, then down he throws
The coral of his lip—the rose
Growing on's cheek, but none knows how,
With these the crystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win :
At last he set her both his

eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, hath she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

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.
The day is Aed, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!

My Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;

My fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green ;
My youth is past, and yet I am but young ;
I saw the world, and


I was not seen;
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 Powers. Listen to his lines addressed to “Primroses filled with morning dew :"

Why do
ye weep, sweet babes ?

Can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who were but born
Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower

That mars a Power,

Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,

Or warp'd, as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty Aowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make known

The reason why
Ye droop and weep:


Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby? Or, that


have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read, “That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.”

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