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Hearing the ly priest that to her speaks,

And blesses her with his two happy hands,

How red the roses flush up in her cheeks!

And the pure snow, with goodly vermil stain,

Like crimson dy'd in grain,

That even the angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service, and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair

The more they on it stare;

But her sad eyes, still fast'ned on the ground,

Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance

awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all your band?

Sing, ye sweet angels! Alleluia sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

"Now all is done: bring home the bride again,

Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gain,

With joyance bring her, and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this,

Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast, therefore, now all this livelong day,

This day for ever to me holy is;

Pour out the wine without restraint or

stay,

Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full: Pour out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withal:

Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal, And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine,

And let the Graces dance unto the rest, For they can do it best,

The whiles the maidens do their carol

sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

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And leave likewise your former lays to sing;

The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

THE POWER OF POETRY TO
CONFER FAME.

ONE day I wrote her name upon the
strand,

But came the waves and washed it away;

Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Vain man! said she, that doth in vain
assay

A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out like-
wise.

Not so, quoth I, let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by
fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious

name,

Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
1554-1586.

[PHILIP SIDNEY was the eldest son of the well-known Sir Henry Sidney, President of Wales and Lord Deputy of Ireland under Elizabeth, and through his mother, Lady Mary Dudley, grandson of the Duke of Northumberland executed in 1553, and nephew of Lord Leicester. He was born at Penshurst, Nov. 29, 1554; he entered Shrewsbury School, Oct. 17, 1564, on the same day as his friend and biographer, Fulke Greville, afterwards Lord Brooke; and in 1568 he was sent to Christ Church, Oxford. From May 1572 to May 1575 Sidney was abroad, in France, Germany, and Italy; sheltered in Sir Francis Walsingham's house in Paris on the night of St. Bartholomew, and spending a considerable time at Frankfort with Hubert Languet, the reformer, afterwards his constant correspondent. In 1575 he appeared at Elizabeth's Court, and took part in the Kenilworth progress. In 1577 he was sent as English ambassador to Rodolph II., at Prague, returning the same year. He seems to have made acquaintance with Harvey and Spenser in 1578, and in 1580, while he was in retirement at Penshurst, after his letter of remonstrance to the Queen on the Anjou match, he and his sister, the well-known Countess of Pembroke, produced a joint poetical version of the Psalms, and the Arcadia was begun (published 1590). He returned to Court in the autumn of 1580, and the Astrophel and Stella sonnets (published 1591) probably date from the following year. The Apologie for Poetrie was written in or about 1581 (the first known edition is that of London, 1595). Sidney was knighted in the same year. In 1583 he married Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and was for the second time a member of Parliament. Nov., 1584, he was appointed governor of Flushing, and nearly two years later, on Sept. 22, 1586, received his fatal wound at the battle of Zutphen. A complete edition of Sidney's poems was published by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, London, 1877.

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I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon

my sun-burn'd brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting
Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-
dame Study's blows;

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But by thy work my Stella I descry, Teaching blind eyes both how to smile

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[LITTLE is known of Lyly's life. He was born in Kent, in 1554, studied at Magdalen College, Oxford, was patronized by Lord Burghley, and wrote plays for the Child players at the Chapel Royal,-the" acry of children," alluded to in Hamlet, "little eyases, that cry out on the top of the question and are most tyrannically clapped for't." He died in 1606. His Euphues was published, first part in 1579, second part in 1580.]

CUPID AND CAMPASPE. [From Alexander and Campaspe.] CUPID and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves,and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows

how),

With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

THOMAS LODGE.

1556-1625.

[THOMAS LODGE was born in Lincolnshire about 1556, entered Trinity College, Oxford, in 1573, and died of the plague at Low Leyton, in Essex, in 1625. The most important of his numerous works are, Scilla's Metamorphosis, 1589; Rosalynde Euphues' Golden Legacy, 1590; Phillis, 1593; A Fig for Momus, 1595; A Margarite of America, 1596.]

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah, wanton, will you?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if I but sing;
He lends my every lovely thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah, wanton, will you?

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ROBERT GREENE.

1560-1592.

[ROBERT GREENE was born at Norwich, probably in 1560. He was a graduate of St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1578, but took his degree of M.A. five years later at Clare Hall. After this he travelled in Italy and Spain, and, returning to London, gained his living as a playwright and pamphleteer. He died in Dowgate, Sept. 3, 1592. His first work was the novel of Mamilia, 1580, which was followed by a rapid succession of tales, poems, plays, and pamphlets. His most remarkable lyrics appeared in Menaphon, 1587; Never Too Late, 1590; and The Mourning Garment, 1590.]

A DEATH-BED LAMENT. DECEIVING world, that with alluring toys Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn, And scornest now to lend thy fading joys, T'out-length my life, whom friends have left forlorn;

How well are they that die ere they be born,

And never see thy slights, which few men shun,

Till unawares they helpless are undone !

O that a year were granted me to live, And for that year my former wits restored!

What rules of life, what counsel I would give,

How should my sin with sorrow be de-
plored!

But I must die of every man abhorred:
Time loosely spent will not again be

won;

My time is loosely spent, and I undone.

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