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ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire,
To honor, serve, and love; as poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned, and a manly soul

I purpos'd her, that should, with even pow'rs, The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she.

SONG TO CELIA

Kiss me, sweet: the wary lover
Can your favors keep, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kiss again: no creature comes.
Kiss, and score up wealthy sums
On my lips, thus hardly sund'red,

While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another

Hundred, then unto the tother
Add a thousand, and so more:
Till you equal with the store,
All the grass that Romney yields,
Or the sands in Chelsea fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that gild his streams,
In the silent summer nights,
When youths ply their stol'n delights
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd

TO THE SAME.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst, that from the sou. doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me:

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear Not of itself, but thee.

FROM THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

NYMPH I.

THUS, thus, begin: the yearly rites
Are due to Pan on these bright nights,
His morn now riseth, and invites
To sports, to dances, and delights:
All envious and profane, away,
This is the shepherd's holiday.

NYMPH 11.

Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,
With every flower, yet not confound
The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse
Bright daisies, and the lips of cows,

The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holiday.

NYMPH III.

Drop crop, you violets, change your hues,
Now red, now pale, as lovers use,
And in your death go out as well
As when you lived unto the smell:
That from your odor all may say
This is the shepherd's holiday

LOVE, A LITTLE BOY
FROM THE

MASQUE ON LORD HADDINGTON'S MARRIAGE

FIRST GRACE.

BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy

Called Love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind,
Cruel now; and then as kind?

If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' run-away.

SECOND GRACE.

She, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall, to-night, receive a kiss,
How, or where herself would wish.
But, who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

THIRD GRACE.

He hath of marks about him plenty :
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

FIRST GRACE.

At his sight, the Sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat:
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre, to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.

SECOND GRACE.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,

He will leap from lip to lip,

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SECOND GRACE.

Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;

Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason in his tears.

THIRD GRACE.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,

And would have ye think them joys; 'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

FIRST GRACE.

If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him.

SECOND GRACE.

Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, you'll not abide him.

THIRD GRACE.

Since ye hear his falser play;

And that he is Venus' run-away.

THOSE EYES.

AH! do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

Ah! be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.

Ah! do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them as distraught with fears-
Mine own enough betray me.

DISCOURSE WITH CUPID. NOBLEST Charis, you that are Both my fortune and my star! And do govern more my blood, Than the various moon the flood! Hear what late discourse of you Love and I have had; and true. 'Mongst my muses finding me, Where he chanced your name to see Set, and to this softer strain:

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Sure," said he, "if I have brain, This here sung can be no other By description but my mother! So hath Homer praised her hair; So Anacreon drawn the air Of her face, and made to rise, Just about her sparkling eyes, Both her brows, bent like my bow. By her looks I do her know, Which you call my shafts. And see! Such my mother's blushes be, As the bath your verse discloses In her cheeks of milk and roses; Such as oft I wanton in.

And above her even chin,

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Have you placed the bank of kisses Where, you say, men gather blisses, Ripened with a breath more sweet Than when flowers and west winds meet. Nay, her white and polished neck, With the lace that doth it deck, Is my mother's! hearts of slain Lovers, made into a chain! And between each rising breast Lies the valley called my nest, Where I sit and proyne my wings After flight; and put new strings To my shafts! Her very name, With my mother's is the same.' "I confess all," I replied, "And the glass hangs by her side, And the girdle 'bout her waist, All is Venus; save unchaste. But, alas! thou seest the least Of her good, who is the best Of her sex; but couldst thou, Love, Call to mind the forms that strove For the apple, and those three Make in one, the same were she. For this beauty still doth hide Something more than thou hast spied. Outward grace weak Love beguiles: She is Venus when she smiles, But she's Juno when she walks, And Minerva when she talks."

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, who is said to have been the first Scottish poet that wrote in pure English, was born at Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, December 13, 1585. His family was one of the most ancient and noble in Scotland. His father, Sir John Drummond, was gentlemanusher to King James VI., and his mother was a daughter of Sir William Fowler, secretary to the queen. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and at the age of twenty-one was sent to France to study law. Four years later, in 1610, his father died, leaving him an independent fortune and the beautiful family-seat of Hawthornden. To this picturesque and romantie retreat Drummond retired, abandoning the law and devoting himself to the quiet pursuits of a country gentleman and a literary life. In 1616 he published at Edinburgh a collection of his poems, which gave him considerable reputation, and gained him the friendship of most of the leading poets of the day, among them Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton, with whom for many years he maintained a cordial and even affectionate correspondence. In the winter of 1618-19 Ben Jonson showed his high regard for the Scottish poet by making a journey on foot of several hundred miles, expressly to visit him. Drummond made notes of the conversation of his distinguished guest, apparently merely as memoranda for his own use. The manuscript, however, was preserved and published after Drummond's death, and gave rise to much unfavorable criticism on both poets, Jonson having spoken with great freedom and some harshness of Shakespeare, Spenser, and other eminent contemporaries, while Drummond has been most absurdly censured for preserving notes of his talk, as if that were a breach of hospitality. The only fault of Drummond in the matter seems to have been that he made his notes too meagre. He might have rendered a great ser

vice to the world of letters, by recording at full length Jonson's remarks on the great authors of the Elizabethan age, with whom he was so intimately acquainted.

About this time Drummond met with a great calamity. A young and beautiful lady of hon orable family, to whom he was engaged, died of a sudden fever on the day before that appointed for the wedding. His griet on this bereavement he expressed in many tender sonnets; and it has been said that he celebrated his dead mistress with more passion than many poets manifest to their living ones. To divert his sorrow he spent eight years in travel in Germany, France, and Italy, during which time he resided long in Paris and Rome. On his return he devoted himself again to letters, and wrote a history of the five Jameses of Scotland, comprising the period from 1423 to 1542. In 1630, at the age of forty-five, he married Elizabeth Logan, grand-daughter of Sir Robert Logan, a lady in whom he found or fancied a resemblance to his lost mistress. The rest of his life was spent in quiet happiness at Hawthornden, where he died December 4, 1649. His poems were collected and published at Edinburgh, in one volume, a few years after his death, and were reprinted at London in 1659. A complete collection appeared in folio in 1711. His versification is thought to resemble that of the minor poems of Milton, and his sonnets have been compared to those of Petrarch, with whose writings he was well acquainted, as he was with those of the other eminent Italian poets. They are distinguished by natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. "River of Forth Feasting," a congratulatory poem to King James on his revisiting Scotland, in 1617, at once became very popular. It has been pronounced “one of the most elegant panegyrics ever addressed by a poet to a prince."

His

THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING. WHAT blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps? What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps,

And seem to call me from my watery court?
What melody, what sounds of joy and sport,
Are conveyed hither from each night-born spring?
With what loud murmurs do the mountains ring,
Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand,
And, full of wonder, overlook the land?

Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright,

This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise;

What loadstar draweth unto us all eyes?
Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired
To mock my sense with what I most desired?
View I that living face, see I those looks,
Which with delight were wont t' amaze my
brooks?

Do I behold that worth, that man divine,
This age's glory, by these banks of mine?
Then find I true what I long wished in vain ;
My much-beloved prince is come again.
So unto them whose zenith is the pole,
When six black months are past, the sun does
roll:

So after tempest to sea-tossèd wights,
Fair Helen's brothers show their clearing lights:
So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods,
And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods;
The feathered silvans, cloud-like, by her fly,
And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky;
Nile marvels, Serap's priests entranced rave,
And in Mygdonian stone her shape engrave;
In lasting cedars they do mark the time
In which Apollo's bird came to their clime.
Let mother-earth now decked with flowers be

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Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,
Such as on India's shores they used to pour:
Or with that golden storm the fields adorn
Which Jove rained when his blue-eyed maid
was born.

May never hours the web of day outweave;
May never night rise from her sable cave!
Swell proud my billows, faint not to declare
Your joys as ample as their causes are:
For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp,
Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp;
And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist re-
pair,

Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair.

Some swiftest footed, get them hence, and pray
Our floods and lakes may keep this holiday;
Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run,
Which see the rising or the setting sun,
Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's

snows:

Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne, tortoise-like, that flows; The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey,

Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day; Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crowned,

Strange Lomond for his floating isles renowned;
The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr,
The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair,
The crystal-streaming Nith, loud bellowing Clyde,
Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide;
Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams,
The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their

names;

To every one proclaim our joys and feasts,
Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests;
And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall,
Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival;
This day shall by our currents be renowned;
Our hills about shall still this day resound:
Nay, that our love more to this day appear,
Let us with it henceforth begin our year.
To virgins flowers, to sunburnt earth the
rain,

To mariners fair winds amidst the main;
Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances
burn,

Are not so pleasing as thy blest return,
That day, dear Prince.

PHOEBUS, arise,

SONG.

And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red,
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Typhon's
bed,

That she thy career may with roses spread,
The nightingales thy coming each where sing
Make an eternal spring.

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou was wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase herce the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,
That day, long-wished day,
Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn,
And fates my hopes betray,)
Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:
Nay, suns which shine as clear
As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise.
If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;
Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue:
Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!

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Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a

tear;

For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.

THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world doth live his own.
Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's
throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horror, troubles, slights: Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

DEAR Chorister, who from those shadows sends-
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light-
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight;
If one whose grief even reach of thought tran-
scends,

Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing!) for what thou thus com-
plains,

Since Winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky
Enamored smiles on woods and flowery plains?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sighed forth, “I love, I

love."

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SONNETS.

IN Mind's pure glass when I myself behold,
And lively see how my best days are spent.
What clouds of care above my head are rolled,
What coming ill, which I cannot prevent:
My course begun, I, wearied, do repent,
And would embrace what reason oft hath told;
But scarce thus think I, when love hath con.
trolled

All the best reasons reason could invent.
Though sure I know my labor's end is grief,
The more I strive that I the more shall pine,
That only death shall be my last relief:
Like one with arrow shot, in laughter's place,
Yet when I think upon that face divine,
Maugre my heart, I joy in my disgrace.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In Time's great periods, shall return to naught;
I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays
The fairest states have fatal nights and days.
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will bring under Reason's
power:

Know what I list, all this cannot me move.
But that, alas! I both must write and love.

TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays,
Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth;
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,
Which men divide unto the world set forth;
States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise
From frozen Tanais unto sunburnt Gange;
Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days.
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floating world beneath the

moon;

Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to Nature trace.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flowers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs com-
bined,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honor that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

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