ROBERT GREENE.

1560-1592.

["Menaphon." 1587.]

DORON'S DESCRIPTION OF SAMELA.

LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,

Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,

Goes fair Samela;

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,

When washed by Arethusa faint they lie,

Is fair Samela.

As fair Aurora in her morning gray,
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela;

Like lovely Thetis on a calméd day,

When as her brightness Neptune's fancy move,

Shines fair Samela;

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory

Of fair Samela;

Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams,

Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony;

Thus fair Samela

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,
For she's Samela,

Pallas in wit; all three, if you well view,

For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity

Yield to Samela.

["Pandosto. The Triumph of Time." 1588.]

THE PRAISE OF FAWNIA.

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land,

Under wide heavens, but yet (I know) not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,

Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be comparéd to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world as doth the sun,
And at her sight the nights' foul vapour's fled;
When she is set, the gladsome day is done.

O glorious sun, imagine me the west,

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

SAMUEL DANIEL.

1562-1619.

DELIA.

THE biographers of Daniel have not been able to ascertain the name of the lady who was his first love, and whom he celebrated under the poetical name of Delia. We learn from the sonnets that she lived on the River Avon,

("But Avon, poor in fame and poor in waters,

Shall have my songs, where Delia hath her seat,")

and that his love was not returned. He married Justina Florio, the sister of John Florio, a noted philologist of the time- -the Holofernes of Shakespeare's "Love's LABOUR LOST." Daniel's sonnets were published in 1592.

Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty,

Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal,

Returning thee the tribute of my duty,

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.

Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,

Where I have cast th' accounts of all my care:

Here have I summed my sighs; here I enroll
How they were spent for thee; look what they are.

Look on the dear expences of my youth,

And see how just I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth;
And cross my cares, ere greater sums arise.
Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly;
Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair;

Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour; Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her; Sacred on earth; designed a saint above! Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciléd friends within her brow: And had she pity to conjoin with those,

Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,

My muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

Restore thy tresses to the golden ore;

Yield Citherea's son those arks of love:
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore ;
And to th' orient do thy pearls remove.
Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white;
T' Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet:
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright;
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet.
Let Venus have thy graces, hers resigned;

And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres:
But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind
To Hyrcan tygers, and to ruthless bears.
Yield to the marble thy hard heart again;
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain.

Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush, and summer's honour!
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty, time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;

She then is scorned that late adorned the fair:
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy withered flowers,

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain;
But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.

But love whilst that thou may'st be loved again,

Now whilst that May hath filled thy lap with flowers;
Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain;
Now use the summer's smiles, ere winter lowers.

And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun,
The fairest flower that ever saw the light,
Now joy the time before thy sweet be done;
And, Delia, think thy morning must have night;

And that thy brightness sets at length to West,

When thou wilt close up that which now thou show'st,

And think the fame becomes thy fading best,

Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.

Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was,
When once they find her flower, her glory pass.

When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,
And thou with careful brow sitting alone,
Receivéd hast this message from thy glass,
That tells the truth, and says that all is gone,
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st;

Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:
I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st,
My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,

That fire can burn when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath been, thyself shall see;
And that thou wast unkind thou may'st repent.