Since then this is my state, And nothing worse than this, Behold the map of death-like life, Exiled from lovely bliss:

Alone among the world,

Strange with my friends to be, Showing my fall to them that scorn, See not, or will not see;

My heart a wilderness,
My studies only fear,

And, as in shadows of curst death,

A prospect of despair.

My exercise must be

My horrors to repeat;
My peace, joy, end, and sacrifice,
Her dead love to entreat;

My food, the time that was;
The time to come, my fast;
For drink, the barren thirst I feel
Of glories that are past;

Sighs and salt tears my bath;
Reason my looking-glass,

To show me he most wretched is

That once most happy was.

Forlorn desires my clock,

To tell me every day

That Time hath stolen love, life, and all

But my distress away.

For music, heavy sighs;

My walk an inward woe;
Which like a shadow ever shall
Before my body go.

And I myself am he

That doth with none compare,
Except in woes and lack of worth
Whose states more wretched are.

Let no man ask my name,
Nor what else I should be;
For GRIEVE-ILL, pain, forlorn estate,
Do best decipher me.

XXII.

MONTANUS' FANCY

GRAVEN UPON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE.

(By Thomas Lodge. Born 1555? died 1625.)

1

IRST shall the heavens want starry light;
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, and sun want bright;
The night want shade, the dead men

graves;

The April flowers and leaf and tree,

Before I false my faith to thee.

'From Lodge's "Rosalind; Euphues' Golden Legacy," 1590, 1592, &c. Reprinted in Collier's " Shakespeare's Library," 1843.

First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpried,
And poets scorn the Muses' quills,
And fish forsake the water glide,
And Iris lose her coloured weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.
First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain,
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And Envy pity every pain,

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First Time shall stay his stayless race,

And Winter bless his brows with corn,

And snow bemoisten July's face,

And Winter spring, and Summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

XXIII.

THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.1

(Before 1593.)

WEET violets, Love's Paradise, that spread

Your gracious odours, which you couched bear

Within your paly faces,

"Phoenix Nest," 1593, p. 95; "England's Helicon," 1600, sign. T, signed "Ignoto." Thence in Brydges' and the Oxford editions of Raleigh's "Poems."

Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind That plays amidst the plain;

If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places!

And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,
You, honours of the flowery meads, I pray,-

You, pretty daughters of the earth and sun,With mild and seemly breathing straight display My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone!

Vermilion roses, that, with new day's rise
Display your crimson folds fresh-looking fair,
Whose radiant bright disgraces

The rich adorned rays of roseate rising morn;
Ah, if her virgin's hand

Do pluck your pure ere Phœbus view the land, And veil your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's

scorn;

If chance my mistress traces

Fast by your flowers to take the summer's air;
Then, woeful blushing, tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting;

And tell love's torments, sorrowing for her friend,
Whose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting,
Report fair Venus' moans to have no end!
Then may remorse, in pitying of my smart,
Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart.

XXIV.

THERE IS NONE, O, NONE BUT YOU!!

(By Robert Earl of Essex. Born 1567;
died 1601.)

HERE is none, O, none but you,
Who from me estrange the sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view,
And chained ears hear with delight,

Others' beauties others move:

In

you

I all the graces find;

Such are the effects of love,

To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust;
Only seem you kind to me!
Still be truly kind and just,

For that can't dissembled be.

Dear, afford me then your sight!
That, surveying all your looks,
Endless volumes I may write,

And fill the world with envied books,

Which when after ages view,

All shall wonder and despair,

Women, to find a man so true,

And men, a woman half so fair!

Printed from Aubrey's MSS. by Dr. Bliss, edit. of Wood's "Fasti," vol. i. p. 245.