The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; Shee is delightfull in the rynde, Corrupted in the core.

Shee shroudeth vice in vertue's veil,

Pretending good in ill;

Shee offereth joy, affordeth griefe,
A kisse where she doth kill.

A honie-showre raines from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face;
Shee hath the blush of virgin minde,
The minde of viper's race.

Shee makes thee seeke, yet fear to finde;
To finde, but not enjoy:

In many frownes some gliding smiles
Shee yeelds to more annoy.

Shee wooes thee to come neere her fire,
Yet doth she draw it from thee;
Farre off she makes thy heart to fry,
And yet to freeze within thee.

Shee letteth fall some luring baits
For fooles to gather up;

Too sweet, too sowre, to everie taste
Shee tempereth her cup.

Soft soules she binds in tender twist,
Small flyes in spinner's webbe;
Shee sets afloate some luring streames,
But makes them soone to ebbe.

Her watrie eyes have burning force;
Her flouds and flames conspire:
Teares kindle sparkes, sobs fuell are,
And sighs doe blow her fire.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowres;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of showres.

Like tyrant, cruell wounds she gives,

Like surgeon,

salve she lends;

But salve and sore have equall force,
For death is both their ends.

With soothing words inthralled soules

Shee chaines in servile bands;

Her

eye

in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sowres,
Short hap immortall harmes;
Her loving lookes are murdring darts,
Her songs bewitching charmes.

Like winter rose and summer ice
Her joyes are still untimely;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse :
Faire first, in fine unseemely.

Moodes, passions, fancies jealous fits,
Attend upon her traine:
She yeeldeth rest without repose,
And heaven in hellish paine.

Her house is Sloth, her doore Deceit,
And slipperie Hope her staires;
Unbashfull Boldnesse bids her guests,
And everie vice repaires.

Her dyet is of such delights

As please till they be past;

But then the poyson kills the heart
That did intice the taste.

Her sleep in sinne doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake;

Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,

Despaires her upshot make.

Plow not the seas, sowe not the sands,

Leave off your idle paine;

Seeke other mistresse for your mindes,
Love's service is in vaine.

SAMUEL DANIEL was born near Taunton, in the year 1562. His father was a music-master; but the youth appears to have been early patronized by the Countess of Pembroke, "Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother,"-"the fosterer of him and his muse," at whose charge he was entered a commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, in 1579. He quitted college at the end of three years, without a degree-the studies of History and Poetry being more congenial to his taste than the dryer pursuits of Alma Mater. He afterwards became tutor to the Lady Anne Clifford, and succeeded Spenser as Poet Laureat to Queen Elizabeth. The title, however, was then a mere compliment, and conferred no pecuniary advantages. He was subsequently appointed Groom of the Chamber to the Queen of James the First; rented a small house and garden in Oldstreet, "near London;" and towards the end of his life, retired to a farm either at Philip's Norton in Somersetshire, or Devises in Wiltshire-his biographers are divided as to which-where "after some time spent in the enjoyment of the Muses and religious conversation," he died in October 1619—and where a tablet was erected to his memory, "in gratitude," by the lady to whom he was tutor - his popularity having greatly lessened so much so that he himself says, he "had outlived the date of former grace, acceptance, and delight:"

"But years have done this wrong

To make me write too much and live too long."

His poetical works consist of fifty-seven sonnets; the Complaint of Rosamond; the Letter of Octavia to Mark Anthony; Hymen's Triumph and the Queen's Arcadia, two pastoral tragi-comedies; Cleopatra and Philotas, two tragedies; Musophilus, or a general defence of learning; the History of the Civil Wars, and various miscel laneous poems.-It is however upon some of the latter, and his sonnets, that his reputation principally depends. His most elaborate work, "the Civil Wars," in the composition of which he spent many years, and on which he mainly rested his hopes of fame, is dull, heavy, and prosaic. Although he is at times elevated into enthusiasm, and assumes the garb and tone of the true poet, it is in general little more than a dry chronicle in measured lines-rarely offending against good sense or good taste, but neither stirred by passion nor enlivened by description. His dramatic poems have the same faults. His "treading in the steps of the ancients in the modelizing of his fable and the conduct of his morals" is attributed to him as a merit - but to attain this object he sacrificed reality, nature, and life. His tragedies are written in alternate rhymes. The whole of his works were collected by his brother, and printed in 4to,

in 1623.

In the writings of Daniel, however, there is much to praise: his diction is easy, his language natural; and there is a fine, weighty, and philosophic vein flowing through them all he is never guilty of pedantry or conceit, and though rarely sublime he is often pathetic. If there is little to praise comparatively little in so voluminous a writer-there is much less to censure. His ambition appears not to have carried him far beyond the desire to be intelligible. Timidity was his great fault. So completely did he distrust his own powers as to have dreaded the danger of a single step beyond the narrowest bounds of propriety. He has thus recorded his own character: "irresolution and a self-distrust were the most apparent faults of my nature." Unfortunately the principal topics he selected were calculated to increase this diffidence; had he cultivated fancy more and knowledge less, a mind so great as his must have achieved that fame for which he so devoutly longed, and which he lived to see withheld from him- although he continued to enjoy the friendship and receive the praise of the greatest men of his age.

In his dedication of Philotas, he alludes with much feeling to his own poetry and its want of success:

"Never had my harmless pen at all
Destained with any loose immodesty,
Nor ever noted to be touched with gall,
To aggravate the worst man's infamy,
But still have done the fairest offices

To virtue and the time, yet nought prevails
And all our labours are without success,
For either favour or our virtue fails."

UNTO the tender youth of those faire eies
The light of judgement can arise but new,
And yong, the world appeares t'a yong conceit,
Whil'st thorow the unacquainted faculties
The late invested soule doth rawly view
Those objects which on that discretion wait.

Yet you that such a faire advantage have Both by your birth and happy pow'rs, t'out go, And be before your yeeres can fairely guesse What hue of life holdes surest without staine, Having your well-wrought heart full furnish't so With all the images of worthinesse,