XI.

FANCY AND DESIRE.1

(By Edward Earl of Oxford. Born 1540? died 1604.)

OME hither, shepherd's swain!

Sir, what do you require?

I pray thee, shew to me thy name!
My name is Fond Desire.

When wert thou born, Desire?
In pomp and prime of May.
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?
By fond Conceit, men say.

Tell me, who was thy nurse?
Fresh youth, in sugared joy.
What was thy meat and daily food?
Sad sighs, with great annoy.

What hadst thou then to drink?
Unfeigned lovers' tears.

What cradle wert thou rocked in?
In hope devoid of fears.

What lulled thee then asleep?
Sweet speech, which likes me best.
Tell me, where is thy dwelling-place?
In gentle hearts I rest.

1 Given by Percy from Deloney's "Garland of Goodwill," p. 105, Percy Soc. ed.; by Ellis and others from Breton's "Bower of Delights," 1597. A shorter copy in Puttenham's "Art of Poesy," 1589, p. 172, as by "Edward, Earl of Oxford, a most noble and learned gentleman." Also imperfectly in Harl. MS. 6910, fol. 145, and in MS. Rawl. 85, fol. 15, verso.

What thing doth please thee most?

To gaze on beauty still.

Whom dost thou think to be thy foe?

Disdain of my good will.

Doth company displease?
Yes, surely, many one.

Where doth Desire delight to live?

He loves to live alone.

Doth either time or age
Bring him unto decay?

No, no! Desire both lives and dies
A thousand times a day.
Then, fond Desire, farewell!
Thou art no mate for me;
I should be loath, methinks, to dwell
With such a one as thee.

XII.

IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR, ETC.

(By Edward Earl of Oxford.)

F women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not

fickle, still,

I would not marvel that they make men bond

MS. Rawl. 85, fol. 16, as by the "Earl of Oxenford." Printed from that MS. by Dr. Bliss, Preface to Brydges' reprint of" England's Helicon," p. xxvi; and from him by many others, sometimes with the title "A Renunciation." Α different copy was printed by Byrd in 1587; see "Cens. Lit." vol. ii. p. 114, second edit.

By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan, Unsettled still, like haggards wild, they range,

These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet, for disport, we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please; And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease: And then we say, when we their fancy try, To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I!

XIII.

FAIN WOULD I SING, ETC.

(By Edward Earl of Oxford.)

AIN would I sing, but Fury makes me fret,
And Rage hath sworn to seek revenge

of wrong;

My mazed mind in malice so is set,

As Death shall daunt my deadly dolours long:

'MS. Tann. 306, p. 193, as by the "Earl of Oxenford." Printed from that MS. by Dr. Bliss, edit. of Wood's "Fasti," vol. i. p. 177.

Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
As die I will, or suffer wrong again.

I am no sot, to suffer such abuse

As doth bereave my heart of his delight; Nor will I frame myself to such as use

With calm consent to suffer such despite : No quiet sleep shall once possess mine eye, Till Wit have wrought his will on injury.

My heart shall fail, and hand shall lose his force, But some device shall pay Despite his due; And Fury shall consume my careful corse,

Or raze the ground whereon my sorrow grew: Lo! thus, in rage of ruthful mind refused, I rest revenged of whom I am abused.

XIV.

THE EARL OF OXFORD TO THE READER OF BEDINGFIELD'S CARDANUS.1

(1576.)

HE labouring man that tills the fertile soil,

And

reaps the harvest fruit, hath not indeed

The gain, but pain; and if for all his toil

He gets the straw, the lord will have the seed.

Prefixed to Bedingfield's translation of Cardanus's "Comfort," 1576, which was (6 published by commandment of the right honourable the Earl of Oxenford," who also has a prefatory letter to the translator.

L

The manchet fine falls not unto his share;
On coarsest cheat his hungry stomach feeds;
The landlord doth possess the finest fare;

He pulls the flowers, the other plucks but weeds.

The mason poor that builds the lordly halls Dwells not in them; they are for high degree; His cottage is compact in paper walls,

And not with brick or stone as others be.

The idle drone that labours not at all

Sucks up the sweet of honey from the bee; Who worketh most, to their share least doth fall: With due desert reward will never be.

The swiftest hare unto the mastiff slow
Oft-times doth fall to him as for a prey:

The greyhound thereby doth miss his game, we know,

For which he made such speedy haste away.

So he that takes the pain to pen the book

Reaps not the gifts of goodly golden Muse; But those gain that who on the work shall look, And from the sour the sweet by skill doth choose: For he that beats the bush the bird not gets, But who sits still and holdeth fast the nets.