She appears more fair to me Than all creatures else that be.

"Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind
Of more sweetness than all art
Or inventions can impart;
Thoughts too deep to be express'd,
And too strong to be suppress'd;
Which oft raiseth my conceits
To such unbelievéd heights,
That I fear some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure he wrongs them if he do :
For could I have reachéd to

So like strains as these you see

Had there been no such as she,

Is it possible that I,

Who scarce heard of poesy,
Should a mere idea raise
To as true a pitch of praise
As the learned poets could
Now, or in the times of old,
All those real beauties bring,
Honour'd by their sonneting;
Having arts and favours too,
More t' encourage what they do?
No, if I had never seen
Such a beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairy-maids,
For a country fiddler's fees,

Clouted cream, and bread and cheese.

"I no skill in numbers had

More than every shepherd's lad,

Till she taught me strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth
From obscureness drew me forth;
And because I had no Muse,
She herself deigned to infuse

All the skill by which I climb

To these praises in my rhyme."

And still the praise runs on in a strain of pleasant music, until it represents all outward charm that has been dwelt upon as but

"An incomparable shrine

Of a beauty more divine;"

and sings the praises of the mind of Fair-Virtue :-

"Let no critic cavil then

If I dare affirm again

That her mind's perfections are
Fairer than her body's far;
And I need not prove it by

Axioms of Philosophy,

Since no proof can better be
Than their rare effects in me;
For, whilst other men complaining
Tell their mistresses' disdaining,
Free from care I write a story
Only of her worth and glory.

"Whilst most lovers pining sit,
Robbed of liberty and wit,
Vassalling themselves with shame
To some proud imperious dame;
Or in songs their fate bewailing,
Shew the world their faithless failing,
I, enwreath'd with boughs of myrtle,
Fare like the belovéd turtle.

"Yea, while most are most untoward,
Peevish, vain, inconstant, froward;
While their best contentments bring
Nought but after-sorrowing;

She, those childish humours slighting,
Hath conditions so delighting,
And doth so my bliss endeavour,

As my joy increaseth ever.

66 By her actions, I can see That her passions so agree Unto reason, that they err Seldom to distemper her.

"Love she can, and doth, but so
As she will not overthrow
Love's content by any folly,
Or by deeds that are unholy.
Doatingly she ne'er affects,
Neither willingly neglects

Her honest love, but means doth find
With discretion to be kind.

"Tis not thund'ring phrase nor oaths,
Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes,
That can her good-liking gain,
If no other worth remain."

Then follow characters of a virtuous mind, until the poem is again interrupted by a group of songs. Philarete pauses to hear the music of a swain who comes day by day to sing and play in the groves, where he is praising his mistress Fair-Virtue to the shepherds. For the swain, who has entered an arbour,

"He so bashful is, that mute

Will his tongue be and his lute
Should he happen to espy
This unlooked-for company."

They are all silent, therefore, and draw quietly near to listen to the singing.

After the songs, the praise of Fair-Virtue runs on; for the swain espied the listeners, who were ill-hidden by the trees, and fled the place. Philarete says then to the shepherds :

"To entreat him back again

Would be labour spent in vain.

You may therefore now betake ye To the music I can make ye."

Happy the woman who shall be thought one with Fair-Virtue :

"Yet, that I her servant am,

It shall more be to my fame

Than to own these woods and downs,

Or be lord of fifty towns;

And my mistress to be deem'd
Shall more honour be esteem'd,
Than those titles to acquire
Which most women most desire.
Yea, when you a woman shall
Countess or a duchess call,
That respect it shall not move,
Neither gain her half such love,
As to say, lo! this is she,

That supposéd is to be
Mistress to Phil'areté.

And that lovely nymph, which he,
In a pastoral poem famed,

And Fair Virtue, there hath named.
Yea, some ladies (ten to one)
If not many, now unknown,
Will be very well apaid,

When by chance, she hears it said,-
She that fair one is whom I
Here have praised concealedly.
"And though now this age's pride
May so brave a hope deride;
Yet, when all their glories pass
As the thing that never was,
And on monuments appear,
That they e'er had breathing here
Who envý it; she shall thrive
In her fame, and honour'd live,
Whilst Great Britain's shepherds sing
English in their sonneting.
And whoe'er in future days,
Shall bestow the utmost praise
On his love, that any man
Attribute to creature can;
"Twill be this, that he hath dared
His and mine to have compared."

GEORGE WITHER. (From the Portrait prefired to his "Emblems," 1635.)

When the strain was at last ended, still there was dance and song among the shepherds and the

nymphs, so that Wither's little volume was rich in the grace of lyric verse with wisdom in its underthought. The last of the songs before the rustic company broke up, after Philarete had separated,

was:

A NYMPH'S SONG

In praise of the Lover of Virtue.

Gentle swain, good speed befall thee; And in love still prosper thou! Future times shall happy call thee, Tho' thou lie neglected now: Virtue's lovers shall commend thee, And perpetual fame attend thee.

Happy are these woody mountains,
In whose shadow thou dost hide;
And as happy are those fountains,

By whose murmurs thou dost bide:
For contents are here excelling,
More than in a prince's dwelling.

These thy flocks do clothing bring thee,
And thy food out of the fields;
Pretty songs the birds do sing thee;

Sweet perfumes the meadow yields: And what more is worth the seeing, Heaven and earth thy prospect being?

None comes hither who denies thee Thy contentments for despite ; Neither any that envies thee

That wherein thou dost delight: But all happy things are meant thee, And whatever may content thee.

Thy affection reason measures,
And distempers none it feeds;
Still so harmless are thy pleasures,
That no other's grief it breeds:
And if night beget thee sorrow,
Seldom stays it till the morrow.

Why do foolish men so vainly

Seek contentment in their store, Since they may perceive so plainly. Thou art rich in being poor: And that they are vex'd about it, Whilst thou merry art without it?

Why are idle brains devising,

How high titles may be gain'd, Since by those poor toys despising, Thou hast higher things obtained? For the man who scorns to crave them, Greater is than they that have them.

If all men could taste that sweetness,
Thou dost in thy meanness know,
Kings would be to seek where greatness
And their honours to bestow,
For if such content would breed them,
As they would not think they need them.

Huge treasures to enjoy,

Of all her gems spoil Ind,

All Seres' silk in garments to employ,

Deliciously to feed,

The phoenix' plumes to find

To rest upon, or deck your purple bed;

Frail beauty to abuse,

And, wanton Sybarites,

On past or present touch of sense to muse;

Never to hear of noise

But what the ear delights,

Sweet music's charms, or charming flatterer's voice.

Nor can it bliss you bring,

Hid Nature's depths to know,

Why matter changeth, whence each form doth spring;

Nor that your fame should range,

And after-worlds it blow

From Tanais to Nile, from Nile to Gange.

All these have not the power

To free the mind from fears,

Nor hideous horror can allay one hour,

When death in stealth doth glance,

In sickness lurks or years,

And wakes the soul from out her mortal trance.

"Who such a life doth live

You happy even may call

Ere ruthless Death a wished end him gn;
And after then when given,

More happy by his fall,

For humanes' earth, enjoying angels' bure

"Swift is your mortal race,

And glassy is the field;

Vast are desires not limited by grace:

Life a weak taper is;

Then while it light doth yield,

Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting him.”

This when the nymph had said,

She dived within the flood,

Whose face with smiling curls long after said: Then sighs did zephyrs press,

Birds sang from every wood,

And echoes rang, "This was true Happines

After a recovery from severe illness Dr sent these lines

TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER
With the Author's Epitaph.

Though I have twice been at the doors of death,
And twice found shut those gates which ever
This but a light'ning is, truce ta'en to breathe,
For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.

Amidst thy sacred cares, and courtly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering fame
Tell, Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spcs,
And that on earth I am but a sad name;

If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,
By all that bliss, those joys heaven here us gave,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,
To grave this short remembrance on my grave:
Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime go
The murmuring Esk:-may roses shade the place

Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, br. = 1580, was about five years older than Dra He also was a poet, and had been in favor TJames VI. before he became James L of Englan In 1621 he received a grant of Nova Sectia vil he was to colonise at his own expense. He until 1640, was made Secretary of State for Sect and otherwise honoured. As poet, he is, per best known for his four Monarchie Tragedie 5published at Edinburgh, in 1614, a long pe: octave rhyme, entitled "Doomsday, or the Gr Day of the Lord's Judgment," of which there ve London edition in 1637. It is divided into Ive Hours, and was perhaps inspired by the poem f Bartas on the Seven Days of creation; one port of the beginning of the world, the other of is tThe first hour of Doomsday declares God His works, tells of the sin of man and of teman plagues and judgments that have been as:

the last. The second hour tells of signs and wonders before the sounding of the last trumpet call. The theme of the third hour is the descent of Christ to judgment and the end of the world. In the fourth hour the trumpet sounds and the dead rise. In the fifth hour trial of souls begins, and in this hour and the sixth and seventh the heathen, the creature worshippers, those whom ambition led through blood, those who lived sensually, the false judges and the learned, above all the Churchmen, who abused their gifts, are accused. With the eighth hour begins the record of the souls who stand in triumph. First come the patriarchs, priests, and prophets, faithful to God, though knowing Christ only in types and figures. Then in the ninth hour come the evangelists, apostles, and those who knew Christ in the flesh; then the first martyrs and early Fathers of the Church. In the tenth hour there is the parting of the evil from the good :-

Thus helpful alms, the offering most esteemed,
Doth men on th' earth, the Lord in heaven content,
How many are, if time might be redeemed,
Who wish they thus their revenues had spent?

If this on th' earth so profitable seemed,
What usurer would for others' gains be bent?
But would the poor with plenty oft supply,
Though they themselves for want were like to die.

Those who, affecting vain ambition's end,
To gain opinion muster all in show;
And, prodigal, superfluously spend
All what they have, or able are to owe,

For pleasures frail, whilst straying fancies tend,
As Paradise could yet be found below:

Still pamp'ring flesh with all that th' earth can give,
No happiness more seek but here to live;

Those if not gorgeous who do garments scorn,
And not in warmness but for cost exceed,
Though as of worms they have the entrails worn,
Worms shall at last upon their entrails feed;
Those dainty tastes who, as for eating born,
That they may feast strive appetite to breed,
And, curious gluttons, even of vileness vaunt,
Whilst surfeiting when thousands starve for want.

The world's chief idol, nurse of fretting cares,
Dumb trafficker, yet understood o'er all,
State's chain, life's maintenance, load-star of affairs,
Which makes all nations voluntar❜ly thrall,
A subtle sorcerer, always laying snares;
How many, Money, hast thou made to fall!
The general jewel, of all things the price,
To virtue sparing, lavish unto vice.

The fool that is unfortunately rich,

His goods perchance doth from the poor extort,
Yet leaves his brother dying in a ditch,
Whom one excess, if spar'd, would well support;
And, whilst the love of gold doth him bewitch,
This miser's misery gives others sport:

The prodigal God's creatures doth abuse,
And them, the wretch, not necessar❜ly use.

Those roving thoughts which did at random soar,
And, though they had conveniently to live,
Would never look behind, but far before,
And, scorning goodness, to be great did strive;
For, still projecting how to purchase more,
Thus, bent to get, they could not dream to give:
Such minds whom envy hath fill'd up with grudge,
Have left no room, where charity may lodge.

Ah! who of those can well express the grief,
Whom once this earth did for most happy hold?
Of all their neighbours still esteem'd the chief,
Whilst stray'd opinion balanc'd worth by gold:
That which to thousands might have given relief,
Wrong spent or spar'd, is for their ruin told:

Thus pleasures past, what anguish now doth even?
We see how hardly rich men go is heaven.

The eleventh hour of "Doomsday" displays the suffering of those who are condemned; and the