Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!

Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might:
Thy rising day saw never wofull night,

But past with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame, Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.

What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon? Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure; Oh! happie race with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy lims that bred the same,
Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried,
The Campe thy sorrow where thy bodie died,
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.

Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come;
In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe;
Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall;

Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall,
Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.

That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time!
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthelesse rime,
Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell.

CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay

Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom [whose] sullein care,

Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In princes court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brayne,)
Walkt forth to ease my payne

Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,

And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes, Fit to decke maydens bowres,

10

15

And crowne their paramours
Against the brydale-day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my

Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were,

That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,

That shone as heavens light,

Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes ! ruune softly, till I end my

song.

25

But rather angels, or of angels breede;

In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.

In sweetest season, when each flower and weede Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, The earth did fresh aray;

Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet, pallid blew, The little dazie, that at evening closes,

So fresh they seem'd as day,

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Even as their brydale day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end m:

The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,
With store of vermeil roses,

To deck their bridegroomes posies
Against the brydale-day, which was not long :

5

Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my

song.

song.

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So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those ioyous Birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.

And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend

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120

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre

In th' ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,

With a great traine ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to bee seene

Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,

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That like the Twins of love they seem'd in sight,
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,
Receiv'd those two faire Brides, their loves deight;
Which, at th' appointed tyde,

Each one did make his Bryde

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Against their brydale day, which is not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my

DARKE is the day, when Phœbus face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside;
The time, like night, depriv'd of chearfull day;
And few do write, but (ah!) too soon may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours ancient pride,
That do, for Poesie, challenge chiefest name
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall read.
G. W. SENIOR.

AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays;
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine
Heroicke deeds of past or present days;
Or whether, in thy lovely Mistresse praise,
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;
Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please
With rare invention, beautified by skill,
As who therein can ever ioy their fill!
O! therefore let that happy Muse proceed
To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endlesse honour shall be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
G. W. JUNIOR,

SONNET I.

HAPPY, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands,
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look,
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
And happy rymes! bath'd in the sacred brooke
Of Helicon, whence she derived is;
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long lacked food, my heavens blis;
Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none !

SONNET II.

UNQUIET thought! whom at the first I bred
Of th' inward bale of my love-pined hart;
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art:
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood;
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart,
And also to sustayne thy selfe with food.
But, if in presence of that fayrest Proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet;
And, with meek humblesse and afflicted mood,
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, intreat:

THE Soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,
Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed!
The light wherof hath kindled heavenly fyre
In my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse raysed;
That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view:
But, looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.

So when my toung would speak her praises dew,
It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;
And, when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:

Yet in my hart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

RUDELY thou wrongest my deare harts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I doo most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envide:
For in those lofty lookes is close implide,
Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonor;
Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.
Such pride is praise; such portlinesse is honor;
That boldned innocence beares in hir eies ;
And her faire countenance like a goodly banner,
Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tride,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

SONNET VI.

BE nought dismayd that her unmoved mind
Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
Such love, not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
The harder woune, the firmer will abide.
The durefull oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
Is long ere it conceive the kindling fyre;
But, when it once doth burne, it doth divide
Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven aspire.

So hard it is to kindle new desire

In gentle brest, that shall endure for ever:
Deepe is the wound, that dints the parts tire
With chaste affects, that naught but death can sever.
Then thinke not long in taking litle paine
To knit the knot, that ever shall remaine.

SONNET VII.

FAYRE eyes! the myrrour of my mazed hart,
What wondrous vertue is contayn'd in you,
The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart
Into the obiect of your mighty view?
For, when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,
Then is my soule with life and love inspired:
But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew,
Then do I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But, since that lyfe is more then death desyred,
Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best ;
That your bright beams, of my wea keies admyred,
May kindle living fire within my brest.

Such life should be the honor of your light,
Such death the sad ensample of your might,

SONNET VIII.

MORE then most faire, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the Maker nere ;

No eies but ioyes, in which al powers conspire,
That to the world naught else be counted deare:
Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded
guest

Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;
But Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest
In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;
You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake;
You calme the storme that passion did begin,
Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak.
Dark is the world, where your light shined never;
Well is he borne, that may behold you ever.

SONNET IX.

LONG-WHILE I sought to what I might compare Those powrefull eies, which lighten my dark spright:

Yet find I nought on earth, to which I dare
Resemble th' ymage of their goodly light.
Not to the Sun; for they doo shine by night;
Nor to the Moone; for they are changed never;
Nor to the Starres; for they have purer sight;
Nor to the Fire; for they consume not ever;
Nor to the Lightning; for they still persever;
Nor to the Diamond; for they are more tender;
Nor unto Cristall; for nought may them sever;
Nor unto Glasse; such basenesse mought offend her
Then to the Maker selfe they likest be,
Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

SONNET X.

UNRIGHTEOUS Lord of love, what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be,
The whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
Of her free-will, scorning both thee and me?!
See how the Tyrannesse doth ioy to see
And humbled harts brings captive unto thee,
The huge massacres which her eyes do make;
That thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take.
But her proud hart doe thou a little shake,
And that high look with which she doth comptroll
All this worlds pride bow to a baser make,
And al her faults in thy black booke enroll:
That I may laugh at her in equall sort,

As she doth laugh at me, and makes my pain her sport.

SONNET XI.

DAYLY when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for my truth;
She, cruell warriour, doth her selfe addresse
To battell, and the weary war renew'th;
Ne wilbe moov'd with reason, or with rewth,
To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;
But greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,
To force me live, and will not let me dy.

All paine hath end, and every war hath peace;
But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.

SONNET XII.

ONE day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies
To make a truce, and termes to entertainc;
All fearlesse then of so false enimies,
Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine.