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Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west

The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

THOMAS CAREW.

Philomela's Ode

THAT SHE SUNG IN HER ARBOR.

SITTING by a river's side
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things
That the mind in quiet brings.
I 'gan think how some men deem
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honor is the chief content
That to man in life is lent;
And some others do contend
Quiet none like to a friend..
Others hold there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health;
Some man's mind in quiet stands
When he's lord of many lands.
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss:
And in my thoughts I did approve
Nought so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees-
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting;
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,
That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is love's sugared thrall;
But unhappy maidens all
Who esteem your virgin blisses
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses.
No such quiet to the mind
As true love with kisses kind;
But if a kiss prove unchaste,
Then is true love quite disgraced.

Though love be sweet, learn this of me, No sweet love but honesty.

ROBERT GREENE.

Come away, Weath.

COME away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid! Fly away, fly away, breath:

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
Oh, prepare it;

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand, thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, Oh! where
Sad true-love never find my grave,

To weep there.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The Tomb.

WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain
By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,
To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their powers bequeath
To those of death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn:
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove
There is more liberty in death than love.

And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,
And, (as a victor) proud

To view the spoils thy beauty made,
Press near my shade;

Lest thy too cruel breath or name Should fan my ashes back into a flame, And thou, devoured by this revengful fire, His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten-
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs-
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER Raleigh.

My Wear and Only Love.

PART FIRST.

My dear and only love, I pray,
This noble world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchie.
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhore, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,
My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shun'st the prize so sore As that thou set'st me up a blind, I'll never love thee more.

If in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part,
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,

And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee evermore.

PART SECOND.

My dear and only love, take heed,

Lest thou thyself expose, And let all longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those. A marble wall then build about, Beset without a door;

But if thou let thy heart fly out,

I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,

Make any breach at all;

Nor smoothness of their language plot
Which way to scale the wall;
Nor balls of wild-fire love consume
The shrine which I adore;
For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise;

Those victualled by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee ruled in that health
And state thou wast before:
But if thou turn a commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

Or if by fraud, or by consent,
Thy heart to ruine come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,

Nor march by tuck of drum;
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up,

Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire,

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor;
But smiling sing, until I die,

I'll never love thee more.

Yet, for the love I bare thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,
A monument of marble-stone
The truth shall testifie;

That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why

I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung,—

A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue; Let no man for more love pretend Than he has hearts in store; True love begun shall never end; Love one and love no more.

Then shall thy heart be set by mine,
But in far different case;

For mine was true, so was not thine,
But lookt like Janus' face.

For as the waves with every wind,

So sail'st thou every shore,

And leav'st my constant heart behind,— How can I love thee more?

My heart shall with the sun be fixed

For constancy most strange,

And thine shall with the moon be mixed,

Delighting ay in change.

Thy beauty shined at first more bright,

And woe is me therefore,

That ever I found thy love so light

I could love thee no more!

The misty mountains, smoking lakes,
The rocks' resounding echo,

The whistling wind that murmur makes,
Shall with me sing hey ho!
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats,
Tears dropping from each shore,
Shall tune with me their turtle notes
I'll never love thee more.

As doth the turtle, chaste and true,
Her fellow's death regrete,
And daily mourns for his adieu,
And ne'er renews her mate;
So, though thy faith was never fast,

Which grieves me wondrous sore, Yet I shall live in love so chaste, That I shall love no more.

And when all gallants ride about

These monuments to view, Whereon is written, in and out,

Thou traitorous and untrue; Then in a passion they shall pause, And thus say, sighing sore, "Alas! he had too just a cause

Never to love thee more."

And when that tracing goddess Fame
From east to west shall flee,
She shall record it, to thy shame,

How thou hast loved me;

And how in odds our love was such

As few have been before;

Thou loved too many, and I too much,
So I can love no more.

JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of MONTROSE.

Welcome, Welcome. Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. LOVE, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.

Love, that still looks on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing.

All the odors of the fields,

Never, never shall be missing.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

Blest as the Immortal Gods.
BLEST as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

"Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast:
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost;
My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung;

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play-
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

Translation of AMBROSE PHILIPS.

SAPPHO. (Greek.)

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer.

A LAPLAND SONG.

KULNASATZ, my reindeer, We have a long journey to go;

The moors are vast, And we must haste. Our strength, I fear, Will fail, if we are slow; And so

Our songs will do.

Kaige, the watery moor,

Is pleasant unto me,

Though long it be,

Since it doth to my mistress lead,

Whom I adore ;

The Kilwa moor

I ne'er again will tread.