And is no lesser honour to a crown

T' have writers, than have actors of renown.

And tho' you have a swannet of your own,
Within the banks of Doven, meditates
Sweet notes to you, and unto your renown
The glory of his music dedicates,

And in a softy tune is set to sound
The deep reports of sullen tragedies:
Yet may this last of me be likewise found
Amongst the vows that others sacrifice
Unto the hope of you, that you one day
May grace this now neglected harmony,
Which set unto your glorious actions may
Record the same to all posterity.

Tho' I, the remnant of another time,
Am never like to see that happiness,
Yet for the zeal that I have borne to rhyme,

And to the Muses, wish that good success

To others' travail, that in better place

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And to the union of the commonweal.
But this may now seem a superfluous vow,

We have this peace; and thou hast sung enow, And more than will be heard, and then as good Is not to write, as not be understood.

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And better comfort they may be inchear'd
Who shall deserve, and who shall have the grace
To have a Muse held worthy to be heard.
And know, sweet Prince, when you shall come to know,
That 'tis not in the pow'r of kings to raise
A spirit for verse, that is not born thereto,
Nor are they born in every prince's days:
For late Eliza's reign gave birth to more
Than all the kings of England did before.

And it may be, the genius of that time
Would leave to her the glory in that kind,
And that the utmost powers of English rhyme
Should be within her peaceful reign confin'd;
For since that time, our songs could never thrive,
But lain as if forlorn; tho' in the prime
Of this new raising season we did strive
To bring the best we could unto the time.
And I, altho' among the latter train,
And least of those that sung unto this land,
Have borne my part, tho' in an humble strain,
And pleased the gentler that did understand:
And never had my harmless pen at all

But still have done the fairest offices

William Browne, of Tavistock, in Devonshire, had studied at Oxford when, at the age of twenty-three, in the year 1613, he published the first part of a poem called "Britannia's Pastorals." The second part followed in 1616. As this is a continuous work of some length, I do not describe it here; but a collection of a dozen pastoral love-gifts, each with a posy or paper of verses to it, is so characteristic of one feature in the polite taste of the time, that it may at once be given. It is from the third song of the first book. Each copy of verses is set in a border of such ornaments as the printer had in stock, except the eleventh and twelfth, which have original designs. Shepherds have been enclosed in a circle of shepherdesses, who dance round them. Upon this there has been a song, and then come the

LOVERS' GIFTS.

Each swain his thoughts thus to his love commended.

The first presents his Dog, with these:
When I my flock near you do keep,
And bid my dog go take a sheep,

He clean mistakes what I bid do,

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Distain'd with any loose immodesty, Nor ever noted to be touch'd with gall, To aggravate the worst man's infamy,

And bends his pace still towards you.
Poor wretch, he knows more care I keep
To get you, than a silly sheep.

The second, his pipe, with these:

Bid me to sing (fair maid), my song shall prove There ne'er was truer pipe sung truer love.

The third, a pair of gloves, thus: These will keep your hands from burning, Whilst the sun is swiftly turning:

But who can any veil devise

To shield my heart from your fair eyes?

The fourth, an anagram :

MAIDEN

AIDMEN

Maidens should be aiding men, And for love give love agen:

1 His poem on the Civil Wars.

Learn this lesson from your mother,
One good wish requires another.
They deserve their names best, when
Maids most willingly aid men.

The fifth, a ring, with a picture in a jewel on it :
Nature hath fram'd a gem beyond compare;
The world's the ring, but you the jewel are.

The sixth, a nosegay of roses, with a nettle in it : Such is the posy Love composes,

A stinging-nettle mix'd with roses.

The seventh, a girdle:

This during light I give to clip your waist:

Fair, grant mine arms that place when day is past.

The eighth, a heart:

You have the substance, and I live
But by the shadow which you give;
Substance and shadow, both are due
And given of me to none but you.
Then whence is life but from that part
Which is possessor of the heart?

The ninth, a shepherd's hook :
The hook of right belongs to you, for when
I take but silly sheep, you still take men.

The tenth, a comb:

Lovely maiden, best of any

Of our plains, though thrice as many : Vail to Love, and leave denying, Endless knots let fates be tying. Such a face, so fine a feature (K indest, fairest, sweetest creature) N ever yet was found, but loving; O then let my plaints be moving! Trust a shepherd though the meanest, Truth is best when she is plainest. I love not with vows contesting: Faith is faith without protesting. Time that all things doth inherit Renders each desert his merit. If that fail in me, as no man Doubtless Time ne'er won a woman. Maidens still should be relenting, And once flinty, still repenting. Youth with youth is best combinéd, Each one with his like is twinéd, Beauty should have beauteous meaning, E ver that hope caseth plaining. Unto you whom Nature dresses

Needs no comb to smooth your tresses.
This way it may do his duty

In your locks to shade your beauty.
Do so, and to Love be turning,
Else each heart it will be burning.

The eleventh:

(These lines written in the shape of a true-love-knot.) This is Love and worth commending,

Still beginning, never ending,

Like a wily net ensnaring,

In a round shuts up all squaring.

In and out whose every angle

More and more doth still entangle,

Keeps a measure still in moving,
And is never light but loving:
Troyning arms, exchanging kisses,
Each partaking other's blisses;
Laughing, weeping, still together,
Bliss in one is mirth in either;
Never breaking, ever bending;
This is Love, and worth commending.

The twelfth:

Lo Cupid leaves his bow, his reason is
Because your eyes wound when his shafts do miss.

CUPID LEAVING HIS Bow. From Browne's "Britannia's Pastorals."

George Wither, born at Bentworth, near Alton, Hampshire, in 1588, was educated at Oxford, went home to help in managing his father's farm, and then went to London, where he excited wrath by the fearlessness of his satires, published in 1613 under the name of "Abuses Stript and Whipt." The satires were named after the human passions. He offended great men, and was locked up in the Marshalsea, and there, dauntless, he sang of the Shepherds' Hunting, his own hunting as Philarete (Lover of Virtue), with ten couple of dogs, his satires, let loose upon the wolves and beasts of prey that spoil human society. This is

Doth it diminish any of thy care, That I in freedom maken melody?

And think'st I cannot as well somewhat spare

From my delight to moan thy misery?

'Tis time our loves should these suspects forbear: Thou art that friend, which thou, unnam'd, should'st And not have drawn my love in question so.

Philarete.

Forgive me, and I'll pardon thy mistake;

And so let this thy gentle anger cease.

I never of thy love will question make
Whilst that the number of our days increase.
Yet to myself I much might seem to take,
And something near unto presumption prease,
To think me worthy love from such a spirit,
But that I know thy kindness past my merit.
Besides, methought thou spak'st now of a friend,
That seem'd more grievous discontents to bear:
Some things I find that do in show offend,
Which to my patience little trouble are;
And they ere long I hope will have an end;
Or though they have not, much I do not care.
So this it was made me that question move,
And not suspect of honest Willy's love.

Willy.

Alas! thou art exiléd from thy flock,
And quite beyond the deserts here confin'd,
Hast nothing to converse with but a rock,
Or at least outlaws in their caves half-pin'd;

[know,

Only my friend's restraint is all my pain; And since I truly find my conscience free From that my loneness too, I reap some gain.

Willy.

But grant in this no discontentment be,
It doth thy wishéd liberty restrain;

And to thy soul I think there's nothing nearer,
For I could never hear thee prize aught dearer.
Philarete.

True, I did ever set it at a rate

Too dear for any mortal's worth to buy:

'Tis not our greatest shepherd's whole estate

Shall purchase from me my least liberty;

But I am subject to the powers of fate,

And to obey them is no slavery:

They may do much, but when they have done all,

Only my body they may bring in thrall.

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Thou seest there's given so great might

To some that are but clay as I,
Their very anger can affright;

Which, if in any thou espy,

Thus think if mortal's frowns strike fear, How dreadful will God's wrath appear!

By my late hopes, that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer be;

And make the freedom I have lost
A means that may remember thee

Had Christ not thy redeemer been,
What horrid thrall thou hadst been in!

These iron chains, these bolts of steel,
Which other poor offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they do feel,
May bring some greater thing to mind;
For by their grief thou shalt do well
To think upon the pains of hell.

Or, when through me thou seest a man
Condemn'd unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with fear his panting breath;
Think, if in that such grief thou see,
How sad will" Go, ye curséd!" be.

Again, when he that fear'd to die,

Past hope, doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his eye,

And then convey it to thy thought;

There think, betwixt my heart and thee, How sweet will "Come ye blessed!" be.

Thus if thou do, though closéd here,
My bondage I shall deem the less,

I neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewail my sad distress;
For whether live, or pine, or die,
We shall have bliss eternally.
Willy.

Trust me! I see the cage doth some birds good;
And, if they do not suffer too much wrong,
Will teach them sweeter descants than the wood.
Believe't! I like the subject of thy song:

It shews thou art in no distemper'd mood,

But 'cause to hear the residue I long.

My sheep to-morrow I will nearer bring,

And spend the day to hear thee talk and sing.

Yet ere we part, Philáreté, areed1

Of whom thou learn'dst to make such songs as these.

1 Areed (First-English "arædian "'), tell

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest,
That may gain her name of Best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be!

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo:

And unless that mind I sec,

What care I though great she be!

Great or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair.
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and bid her go:
For if she be not for me,

Was that sweet shepherd who, until a king,
Kept sheep upon the honey-milky plain,
That is enrich'd by Jordan's watering:
He in his troubles eas'd the body's pains,
By measures rais'd to the soul's ravishing:
And his sweet numbers only, most divine,
Gave first the being to this song of mine.

FRANCIS QUARLES, like George Wither, began to write in the reign of James I., and in the reign of Charles I. in the same year, 1635, each produced a volume of "Emblems." Quarles, four years younger than Wither, was much less stirred by political excitement. He was born at Romford in 1592, educated at Christ's College, Cambridge, became cupbearer to the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher. This is one of his Emblems, written to the picture of one clipping the round World within his

arms:

There is no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches.—
ECCLES. iv. 8.

O how our widen'd arms can over-stretch
Their own dimensions! How our hands can reach
Beyond their distance! How our yielding breast
Can shrink to be more full and full possest
Of this inferior orb! How earth refin'd
Can cling to sordid earth! How kind to kind!
We gape, we grasp, we gripe, add store to store :
Enough requires too much; too much craves more.
We charge our souls so sore beyond their stint,
That we recoil or burst: the busy mint

Of our laborious thoughts is ever going,

And coining new desires; desires not knowing

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Joinéd with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican;
If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be!

Where next to pitch; but, like the boundless ocean, Gain, and gain ground, and grow more strong by motion.

The pale-fac'd lady of the black-eyed night

First tips her hornéd brows with easy light,