PHILIP SIDNEY

I NEVER drank of Aganippe well,

Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.

Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,

But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease

My thoughts I speak ; and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess we the cause? What, is it thus? Fie, no. Or so Much less. How then? Sure thus it is: My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.

PHILIP SIDNEY

HIGHWAY, Since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber melody;
Now blessed you bear onward blessed me

Be

To her, where I my heart safe-left shall meet; My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. you still fair, honoured by public heed';

By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot; Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.

,,」

PHILIP SIDNEY

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and give us light to see. O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death,

And think how evil becometh him to slide

Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see : Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.

SPLENDIDIS LONGUM VALEDICO NUGIS

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE

(1554-1628)

FIE, foolish earth, think you the heaven wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
All's dark unto the blind; let them be sorry;
The heavens in themselves are ever bright.

Fie, fond desire, think you that love wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
The hopes and fears of lust may make men sorry,
But love still in herself finds her delight.

Then earth, stand fast; the sky that you benight
Will turn again and so restore your glory;
Desire, be steady; hope is your delight,

An orb wherein no creature can be sorry,
Love being placed above these middle regions,
Where every passion wars itself with legions.

HENRY CONSTABLE

(1562-1613)

TO ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL

He that for fear his Master did deny,

And at a maiden's voice amazed stood,
The mightiest monarch of the world withstood,
And on his Master's cross rejoiced to die.

He whose blind zeal did rage with cruelty

And helped to shed the first of martyr's blood,
By light from heaven his blindness understood,
And with the chief apostle slain doth lie.
O three times happy two! O golden pair!

Who with your blood did lay the church's ground
Within that fatal town which twins did found,
And settled there the Hebrew fisher's chair

Where first the Latin shepherd raised his throne,
And since the world and church were ruled by one.