Indured hearts no warning feel.

O! shameless whore! is dread then gone?
Be such thy foes, as meant thy weal?
O! member of false Babylon!

The shop of craft! the den of ire!
Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon.
Thy martyrs' blood by sword and fire,
In heaven and earth for justice call.
The Lord shall hear their just desire!
The flame of wrath shall on thee fall!
With famine and pest lamentably
Stricken shall be thy lechers all.
Thy proud towers and turrets high,
Enemies to God, beat stone from stone:
Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity:
When none thy ruin shall bemoan;
But render unto the righteous Lord,
That so hath judged Babylon,
Immortal praise with one accord.

THE LOVER DESCRIBETH HIS WHOLE

STATE UNTO HIS LOVE,

AND PROMISING HER HIS FAITHFUL GOOD WILL, ASSURETH HIMSELF OF HERS AGAIN.1

康

HE Sun, when he hath spread his rays,
And shew'd his face ten thousand ways;
Ten thousand things do then begin,
To shew the life that they are in.
The heaven shews lively art and hue,
Of sundry shapes and colours new,
And laughs upon the earth; anon,
The earth, as cold as any stone,
Wet in the tears of her own kind,
'Gins then to take a joyful mind.
For well she feels that out and out
The sun doth warm her round about,
And dries her children tenderly;
And shews them forth full orderly.

The mountains high, and how they stand!
The valleys, and the great main land!
The trees, the herbs, the towers strong,
The castles, and the rivers long!

This poem is among those of "Uncertain Authors" printed by Tottel. Dr. Nott ascribes it to Surrey, on tb authority of Turberville, in the following line:

"Though noble Surrey said 'that absence wonders
frame.""

And even for joy thus of this heat
She sheweth forth her pleasures great,
And sleeps no more; but sendeth forth
Her clergions,' her own dear worth,
To mount and fly up to the air;
Where then they sing in order fair,
And tell in song full merrily,
How they have slept full quietly
That night, about their mother's sides.
And when they have sung more besides,
Then fall they to their mother's breasts,
Whereas they feed, or take their rests.
The hunter then sounds out his horn,
And rangeth straight through wood and corn.
On hills then shew the ewe and lamb,
And every young one with his dam.
Then lovers walk and tell their tale,
Both of their bliss, and of their bale ; 2
And how they serve, and how they do,
And how their lady loves them too.
Then tune the birds their harmony;
Then flock the fowl in company;
Then every thing doth pleasure find
In that, that comforts all their kind.
No dreams do drench them of the night
Of foes, that would them slay, or bite,
As hounds, to hunt them at the tail;
Or men force them through hill and dale.
The sheep then dreams not of the wolf:
The shipman forces not the gulf;
The lamb thinks not the butcher's knife
Should then bereave him of his life.

For when the sun doth once run in,
Then all their gladness doth begin ;
And then their skips, and then their play:
So falls their sadness then away.

And thus all things have comforting
In that, that doth them comfort bring;
Save I, alas! whom neither sun,

Nor aught that God hath wrought and done
May comfort aught; as though I were
A thing not made for comfort here.
For being absent from your sight,
Which are my joy and whole delight,
My comfort, and my pleasure too,
How can I joy! how should I do?
May sick men laugh, that roar with pain?
Joy they in song, that do complain?
Are martyrs in their torments glad?
Do pleasures please them that are mad?
Then how may I in comfort be,
That lack the thing should comfort me?
The blind man oft, that lacks his sight,
Complains not most the lack of light;
But those that knew their perfectness,
And then do miss their blissfulness,
In martyrs' tunes they sing, and wail
The want of that, which doth them fail.
And hereof comes that in my brains
So many fancies work my pains.
For when I weigh your worthiness
Your wisdom, and your gentleness,
Your virtues and your sundry grace,
And mind the countenance of your face;
And how that you are she alone,

To whom I must both plain and moan;
Whom I do love, and must do still;
Whom I embrace, and aye so will,
To serve and please you as I can,
As may a woful faithful man;
And find myself so far you
fro,
God knows, what torment and what woe,
My rueful heart doth then embrace;
The blood then changeth in my face;
My sinews dull, in dumps1 I stand,
No life I feel in foot nor hand,
As pale as any clout, and dead.
Lo! suddenly the blood o'erspread,
And gone again, it nill2 so bide;
And thus from life to death I slide,
As cold sometimes as any stone;
And then again as hot anon.

Thus comes and goes my sundry fits,
To give me sundry sorts of wits;
Till that a sigh becomes my friend,
And then too all this woe doth end.
And sure, I think, that sigh doth run
From me to you, where ay you won.
For well I find it easeth me;
And certès much it pleaseth me,
To think that it doth come to you,
As, would to God, it could so do.
For then I know you would soon find,
By scent and savour of the wind,

That even a martyr's sigh it is,
Whose joy you are, and all his bliss;
His comfort and his pleasure eke,

1 Dulness of spirits.

2 Unwilling.