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Here are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too, too hasty fates;
Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook:

Nor envy, unless among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek;
We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;

And gold ne'er here appears,
Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery!
May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains!

Which we may every year

Find when we come a fishing here!

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.1

If all the world and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey'd tongue-a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But could Youth last, could Love still breed;
Had joys no date, had Age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

1 See the invitation of the Shepherd by Marlow, p. 87.

A VISION UPON THE FAERIE QUEENE.'
Methought I saw the grave, where Laura2 lay,

Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queene;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen;
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,

And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce.
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief!

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.3

Go, Soul, the Body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give them all the lie.

Go, tell the Court it glows,

And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows

What's good, but does no good.
If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.

Tell Potentates, they live

Acting, but oh! their actions

Not loved, unless they give;

Nor strong, but by their factions.
If Potentates reply,

Give Potentates the lie.

1 "A higher strain of compliment cannot well be conceived than this, which raises your idea even of that which it disparages in comparison, and makes you feel that nothing could have torn the writer from his idolatrous enthusiasm for Petrarch and his Laura's tomb, but Spenser's magic verse and diviner Faerie Queene-the one lifted above mortality, the other brought from the skies.”—Hazlitt. "I have been always singularly struck and delighted with the tone, imagery, and expression of this extraordinary sonnet. The anthor must at this time have been deeply read in works of poetical fancy, and highly imbued with their spirit. Milton had deeply studied this sonnet; for in his compositions of the same class, he has evidently, more than once, the very rhythm and construction, as well as cast of thought, of this noble, though brief composition."-Sir Egerton Brydges.

The lady to whom Petrarch addressed so much of his beautiful poetry.

This poem appeared anonymously in "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," in 1608, and has been scribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. I have therefore given it a place here with his poems, although there is no certainty about it. Sir Egerton Brydges, always good authority in every question of English Literature, places it at the end of his edition of Raleigh's poems, and says:-"I know no author so apable of writing it as Raleigh; but, whoever was the author, it is a poem of uncommon beauty and merit, and glowing with all that moral pathos, which is one of the first charms in the compost bon of genius." It is here printed as ir Sir E. Brydges's edition.

Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate.
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell those that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it is but motion;

Tell Flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;

Tell Honor how it alters;
Tell Beauty that it blasteth;
Tell Favor that she falters:
And as they do reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles

Herself in over-wiseness:
And if they do reply,

Then give them both the lie.

Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is pretension;
Tell Charity of coldness;

Tell Law it is contention:

And if they yield reply,
Then give them still the lie

Tell Fortune of her blindness;
Tell Nature of decay;

Tell Friendship of unkindness;

Tell Justice of delay:

And if they do reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell Arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming;

Tell Schools they lack profoundness.

And stand too much on seeming.

If Arts and Schools reply,

Give Arts and Schools the lie.

Tell Faith it's fled the city;

Tel! how the Country erreth; Tell Manhood, shakes off pity; Tell Virtue, least preferreth.

And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So, when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing;

Yet stab at thee who will,

No stab the Soul can kill.

The following most affectionate and touching letter, written by Raleigh to his wife, after his condemnation, cannot be omitted:

You shall receive, my dear wife, my last words in these my last lines; my love I send you, that you may keep when I am dead, and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no more. I would not with my will present you sorrows, dear Bess; let them go to the grave with me, and be buried in the dust. And seeing that it is not the will of God that I shall see you any more, bear my destruction patiently, and with an heart like yourself.

First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words express, for your many travails and cares for me; which though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world.

Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bare me living, that you do not hide yourself many days, but by your travails seek to help the miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child. Your mourning cannot avail me that am but dust.

Thirdly, you shall understand, that my lands were conveyed bona fide to my child; the writings were drawn at midsummer was twelve months, as divers can witness; and I trust my blood will quench their malice who desired my slaughter, that they will not seek also to kill you and yours with extreme poverty. To what friend to direct you I know not, for all mine have left me in the true time of trial. Most sorry am I, that, being thus surprised by death, I can leave you no better estate; God hath prevented all my determinations, that great God which worketh all in all; and if you can live free from want, care for no more, for the rest is but a vanity love God, and begin betimes-in him you shall find true, everlasting, and endless comfort; when you have travailed and wearied yourself with all sorts of worldly cogitations, you shall sit down by sorrow in the end. Teach your son also to serve and fear God whilst he is young, that the fear of God may grow up in him; then will God be an husband to you, and a father to him-an husband and a father that can never be taken from you.

Baylie oweth me a thousand pounds, and in Jernesey also I have much owing me. you, for my soul's sake, pay all poor men.

Aryan six hundred;
Dear wife, I beseech
When I am dead, no

doubt yol shall be much sought unto, for the world thinks I was very rich have a care to the fair pretences of men, for no greater misery can befall you in this life, than to become a prey unto the world, and after to be despised. I speak (God knows) not to dissuade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect of God and the world. As for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine; death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. Reinember your poor child for his father's sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for my life, but God knows it was for you and yours that I desired it for know it, my dear wife, your child is the child of a true man, who in his own respect despiseth death and his misshapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much; God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep; and it is also time for me to separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or Exeter church by my father and mother. I can say no more; time and death call me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infinite, and inscrutable God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom. My dear wife, farewell; bless my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in his arms.

Yours that was, but now not mine own,

WALTER RALEIGH.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREY.'

Or the history of this lady, nothing satisfactory can be obtained. She wrote tragedy, entitled "Mariam, the fair Queen of Jewry," written by that iearned, virtuous, and truly noble lady, "E. C. 1613." It is written in alternate verse, and with a chorus after the manner of the Greek tragedians. She died probably some time in the reign of Jaines the First. The following is the chorus in Act IV. of Mariam :

ON FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES.

The fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;

For who forgives without a further strife,
His adversary's heart to him doth tie.

And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done;

1 Generally spelled Carew, but incorrectly.

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