Here are two more of HERRICK's sweet songs :

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

Now let us rehearse that famous old song of MARLOWE, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentle man, Izaac Walton:

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hill and valley, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Here is the opening passage of a poem by DANIEL, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day :—

He that of such a height hath built his mind,

And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame

Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong

His settled peace, or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!

He also wrote the following sprightly song:

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;

A plant that most with cutting, grows;
Most barren, with best using:

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full, nor fasting:

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-
Heigh-ho!

Among favorite love-lyrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal, by LODGE. Here it is:

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

And if I sleep, there percheth he

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he turns the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye,

Else I, with roses, every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,

The following impassioned and beautiful lines are the commencement of a poem, entitled The Exequy, written by DR. KING:

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,

Instead of dirges, this complaint;

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse,

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see

Quite melted into tears for thee!

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,

My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee; thou art the book,

The library whereon I look,

Though almost blind; for thee (loved clay)

I languish out, not live, the day,

Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes:
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily Time creeps about
To one that mourns: this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours.
With sighs dissolved into showers.