You laugh because you like not; I jest whenas I

joy not;

You pierce, although you strike not; I strike and yet annoy not.

I spy, whenas I speak not; for oft I speak and speed not;

But of my wounds you reck not, because you sec they bleed not:

Yet bleed they where you see not, but you

endure not:

the pain

Of noble mind they be not that ever kill and cure

not.

I see, whenas I view not; I wish, although I crave not;

I serve, and yet I sue not; I hope for that I have not;

I catch, although I hold not; I burn, although I flame not;

I seem, whenas I would not; and when I seem, Ι

am not.

Yours am I, though I seem not, and will be, though I show not;

Mine outward deeds then deem not, when mine intent you know not;

But if my serving prove not most sure, although I sue not,

Withdraw your mind and love not, nor of my ruin rue not.

XII.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO HIS SON.1

HREE things there be that prosper all

арасе,

And flourish while they are asunder
far;

But on a day, they meet all in a place,
And when they meet, they one another mar.

And they be these; the Wood, the Weed, the Wag: The Wood is that that makes the gallows tree; The Weed is that that strings the hangman's bag; The Wag, my pretty knave, betokens thee.

Now mark, dear boy-while these assemble not, Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild;

But when they meet, it makes the timber rot,
It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.

GOD BLESS THE CHILD!

1 MS. Malone 19, p. 130.

Four kings shall be assembled in this isle,
Where they shall keep great tumult for awhile.
Many men then shall have an end of crosses,
And many likewise shall sustain great losses;
Many that now full joyful are and glad,
Shall at that time be sorrowful and sad;
Full many a Christian's heart shall quake for fear,
The dreadful sound of trump when he shall hear.
Dead bones shall then be tumbled up and down,
In every city and in every town.

By day or night this tumult shall not cease,
Until an herald shall proclaim a peace;

An herald strong, the like was never born,
Whose very
beard is flesh and mouth is horn.

ST WAL. R.

MS. Malone 19, p. 45. Also ascribed to Raleigh in the

Catalogue of Oxford MSS. among those of c. c. c.

XIV.

THE SILENT LOVER.1

ASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams:

The shallow murmur, but the deep
are dumb;

So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion;

Since, if my plaints serve not to approve
The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,

But from excess of duty.

1 Signed as below in a MS. formerly belonging to the late Mr. Pickering. The text of the Oxford edition, viii. 716, is corrected from a Rawl. MS. where the piece is absurdly headed" Sir Walter Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth." Also assigned to Raleigh in the Lansdowne MS. of some of W. Browne's Poems (Brydges, Preface to Browne's Poems, L. P. 1815, p. 6). In other old copies entitled "To his Mistress, by Sir Walter Raleigh;" see "Wit's Interpreter," 1671, p. 146; another copy on p. 173 is anonymous. The title given above is from Oldys, p. lv. and the editions of Raleigh's Works. The piece has been claimed on inferior evidence for Lord Pembroke,Sir R. Aytoun, and Lord Walden.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,

When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that they should utter,
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret, passion:
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

ST W. R.