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XXV.

A PASSION OF MY LORD OF ESSEX.1

APPY were he could finish forth his fate In some unhaunted desert, most obscure

From all societies, from love and hate

Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure; Then wake again, and ever give God praise, Content with hips and haws and bramble-berry; In contemplation spending all his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry; Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush, Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.

XXVI.

VERSES MADE BY THE EARL OF
ESSEX IN HIS TROUBLE.2

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HE ways on earth have paths and turnings known;

The ways on sea are gone by needle's light;

MS. Ashm. 781, p. 83, as "Certain Verses made by Lord Essex;" and Chetham MS. 8012, p. 86, with the title given above. It is said to have been enclosed in a letter to the Queen from Ireland, in 1599, and has been frequently printed.

2 Printed from a Brit. Mus. MS. by Ellis, "Specimens," vol. ii. p. 361, edit. 1811; and Devereux, "Earls of Essex," vol. ii. p. 111.

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The birds of the air the nearest way have flown,

And under earth the moles do cast aright; A way more hard than these I needs must take, Where none can teach, nor no man can direct; Where no man's good for me example makes,

But all men's faults do teach her to suspect. Her thoughts and mine such disproportion have; All strength of love is infinite in me; She useth the advantage time and fortune gave Of worth and power to get the liberty.

Earth, sea, heaven, hell, are subject unto laws, But I, poor I, must suffer and know no cause. R. E. E.

XXVII.

TO TIME.1

(By A. W. Before 1602.)

TERNAL Time! that wastest without

waste,

That art, and art not,-diest, and
livest still;

Most slow of all, and yet of greatest haste;
Both ill and good, and neither good nor ill:
How can I justly praise thee or dispraise?
Dark are thy nights, but bright and clear thy days.

' Davison's "Poetical Rhapsody," 1602, &c., p. 137, edit. 1621.

Both free and scarce, thou givest and takest again; Thy womb, that all doth breed, is tomb to all ; What so by thee hath life by thee is slain;

From thee do all things rise, to thee they fall: Constant, inconstant; moving, standing still; Was, is, shall be, do thee both breed and kill. I lose thee, while I seek to find thee out; The farther off, the more I follow thee; The faster hold, the greater cause of doubt;

Was, is, I know; but shall, I cannot see: All things by thee are measured, thou by none; All are in thee; thou in thyself alone.

XXVIII.

UPON AN HEROICAL POEM

WHICH HE HAD BEGUN (IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL)

OF THE FIRST INHABITING THIS FAMOUS

ISLE BY BRUTE AND THE TROJANS.1

(By A. W. Before 1602.)

Y wanton Muse, that whilome wont to sing
Fair Beauty's praise and Venus'sweet

M

delight,

Of late had changed the tenour of her string

To higher tunes than serve for Cupid's fight:

Davison's "Poetical Rhapsody," 1602, &c., p. 25, edit. 1621. Also in the second edition of "England's Helicon," 1612, as "An Heroical Poem," with the signature "Ignoto." Thence in Brydges' and the Oxford editions of Raleigh's "Poems."

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Shrill trumpets' sound, sharp swords, and lances

strong,

War, blood, and death were matter of her song.

The god of love by chance had heard thereof,

That I was proved a rebel to his crown: Fit words for war! quoth he, with angry scoff; A likely man to write of Mars his frown! Well are they sped whose praises he will write, Whose wanton pen can nought but love indite! This said, he whisked his party-coloured wings, And down to earth he comes, more swift than thought;

Then to my heart in angry haste he flings,

To see what change these news of wars had wrought:

He pries and looks, he ransacks every vein,—
Yet finds he nought save love and lover's pain.
Then I, that now perceived his needless fear,
With heavy smile began to plead my cause:—
In vain, quoth I, this endless grief I bear,

In vain I strive to keep thy grievous laws,
If, after proof so often trusty found,
Unjust suspect condemn me as unsound.

Is this the guerdon of my faithful heart?
Is this the hope on which my life is stayed?
Is this the ease of never-ceasing smart?

Is this the price that for my pains is paid? Yet better serve fierce Mars in bloody field, Where death or conquest end or joy doth yield.

Long have I served; what is my pay but pain? Oft have I sued; what gain I but delay ?

My faithful love is 'quited with disdain;
My grief a game, my pen is made a play;
Yea, Love, that doth in other favour find,
In me is counted madness out of kind.

And last of all-but grievous most of all,—
Thyself, sweet Love, hath killed me with suspect:
Could Love believe that I from Love would fall?
Is war of force to make me Love neglect?
No! Cupid knows my mind is faster set,
Than that by war I should my Love forget.

My Muse, indeed, to war inclines her mind:
The famous acts of worthy Brute to write,
To whom the Gods this island's rule assigned,
Which long he sought by seas through Neptune's
spite :

With such conceits my busy head doth swell,
But in my heart nought else but Love doth dwell.

And in this war, thy part is not the least:

Here shall my Muse Brute's noble love declare;
Here shalt thou see thy double love increased,
Of fairest twins that ever lady bare;

Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright,
His conquered arms shall be thy triumph's light.

As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue,
And I thy glory through the world will ring;
So by my pains thou wilt vouchsafe to rue,

And kill despair.-With that he whisked his wing And bade me write, and promised wished rest; But sore I fear false hope will be the best.

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