And makes me then bow down my head, and say, Ah! what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail, Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?

So strangely, alas! thy works in me prevail, That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy, And in my joys for thee, my sole annoy.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Under the title of "Miscellaneous Poems" we have reprinted the whole productions of Sir Philip Sidney's Muse, as far at least as we have been able to discover them, which are not contained in the Arcadia, the Astrophel and Stella, the Lady of May, or his Translation, conjointly with his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, of the Psalms of David. The six compositions here inserted last in order, are now for the first time collected.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A REMEDY FOR LOVE. ·

PHILOCLEA and Pamela sweet,

By chance, in one great house did meet ;

And meeting, did so join in heart,

That th' one from th' other could not part:

And who indeed (not made of stones)

Would separate such lovely ones?

The one is beautiful, and fair

As orient pearls and rubies are ;

And sweet as, after gentle showers,

The breath is of some thousand flowers :

For due proportion, such an air

Circles the other, and so fair,

That it her brownness beautifies,
And doth enchant the wisest eyes.

Have you not seen, on some great day, Two goodly horses, white and bay, Which were so beauteous in their pride, You knew not which to choose or ride?

Such are these two; you scarce can tell,
Which is the daintier bonny belle ;
And they are such, as, by my troth,
I had been sick with love of both,
And might have sadly said, "Good-night
Discretion and good fortune quite ;
But that young Cupid, my old master,
Presented me a sov'reign plaster :
Mopsa! ev'n Mopsa! (precious peat)
Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet,
Are spells and charms of strong defence,
To conjure down concupiscence.

How oft have I been reft of sense,

By gazing on their excellence,
But meeting Mopsa in my way,

And looking on her face of clay,

Been heal'd, and cur'd, and made as sound,
As though I ne'er had had a wound?
And when in tables of my heart,

Love wrought such things as bred my smart,
Mopsa would come, with face of clout,

And in an instant wipe them out.
And when their faces made me sick,
Mopsa would come, with face of brick,
A little heated in the fire,

And break the neck of my desire.
Now from their face I turn mine eyes,
But (cruel panthers!) they surprise
Me with their breath, that incense sweet,
Which only for the gods is meet ;
And jointly from them doth respire,
Like both the Indies set on fire :