NOTE TO ARTICLE XXIII. (2.)

ECHOES.

1. He confesseth his first love to his friend.

I love a lady, fair as any star,

As bright and sparkling, but alack as cold, I try to tell her what her beauties are,

And strive to make her think that I am bold.

For ladies do not love the men who fear,

Though fear is compound in impassioned hearts, I read her sonnets where men's woes appear, When they so suffer from Love's painful darts.

I say none other lady of the land,

I have a thought of, or a will to see,

I pray her to be kind, and not withstand
My cry that she should pity have of me.

And then she turns her back, and would away,
And I grow hot and cold, and shake with grief,

I dare not ask her yet again to stay:

Then I grow angry, which brings some relief.

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For it bethinks me I'm as good a man,
As she a woman, and I say Farewell!
I go to seek some heart that feels, and can
Give ear unto the thoughts I have to tell."

She turns and whispers" Stay, if you will know;
I have no graces in mine own conceit,
To match your worthiness," then flies me fro,
And I go seek her, feeling her so sweet.

Dost thou think, we shall e'er, as lovers, meet?

2. He complaineth his marvellous woe.

Praising her beauties to her inner ear,

I made my love grow proud, and self-content, She would have praise that other men could hear, And words more richly gilded than I meant.

Boasting her graces unto thee, my friend

Finis.

Her vaunted beauties soon thou fain wouldst see, And begged me from my precious hours to lend, Some minutes to peruse the same with me.

Ay me! I bear the sorrows now of four

I've lost my Love, my friend, his Love, my soul, All suffer, but none think of me, or pour

The solace of their comfort on my dole.

My Love pursues thee unto thine annoy,
Thine has waxed jealous of her witching eyes,
Through discord, thou hast lost in both thy joy,
And dost reproach me that I was not wise.

My Love saith "easy won is lightly lost,"
Thy Love saith I deserve to be forlorn,
Thou sayst there is no peace on tempest tost
I say I have no will to live in scorn.

3. He prepareth for death.

My lute, attend, have patience with my woe,
And strike thy concords gently to my tone,
I sing to thee what others must not know,
The causes wherefore thus I make my mone.
I had a lady,-woe to say-I had,

A Lady fair, and sweet as any rose,

Whose Love made all my heart and fancies glad
And earth and heaven all their joys disclose.
But now alas to other eyes she turns,

She leaves me lone, and scorneth my despair,

For other Lovers now her fancy burns,

She hath grown cruel, though she still is fair.
For me, alas, there's nothing left but death,

But thee, my Lute, I bid thee note each phrase,
And when on thee I wasted have my breath,
Preserve all faithfully my fainting lays,
For thee to her, I'll leave as Legacy,

And when she touches thee, fill thou her ear
With echoes of my plaint, in memory,
Until she drops upon thee Pity's tear.

4. He waiteth a space ere he dieth.

Fair and stately is the May,

Who late stole my heart away,
Stole it, spite of bolt and bar
Stole it, spite of fate and star

And in spite of me.

Finis.

Finis.

Cold and cruel is the May

Who thus stole my heart away,
Will not pay me for the theft,
Make amends for joy bereft.
Nor will hear my plea.

And she keeps my faithful heart
In dure prison set apart,
Gives no food, nor freedom's light,
Till my sore-tormented sprite
Fain to death would flee.

But, alas, she would not go

With me to the realms below! Better dwell on Life, where she Lives to wound and torture me Life some hope may see.

5. The Lady mourns alone.

Ah, she was fair and golden,

And I was dark and brown,
Her eyes shot back the sunbeams,
Mine fell in shadow down.
I looked down on the shadow
For I held my Love in awe,
She, fearless looked around her,
And soon my Lover saw.
She envied me his worship,
She envied him his grace;
She only turned upon him,
The sunlight of her face-
His heart leapt out unto her
As flowers to sunshine do;
She broke one heart last summer,
She now hath broken two.
She broke my heart by taking

My Love out of my life;
She broke his heart by breaking
The vows which made her wife.

Finis.

Finis.

TO HIS WIFE.

WHEN, 'mid the feigning fervours of the play,
Where Babel's markets dusty uproars keep;
Or restless pillows, when the ghosts of Day
Tempt Night to break his trust and strangle sleep,
I say that Death were better than such strife,
Some spirit on such background visions thee,

At home, calm, sweet, renewer of worn life,
Then I would live, because thou liv'st for me.

Draw me to thee, in thy Courts to appear,

Thy bounds are Avon, and her gentle streams

Wash pleasant woodlands, wov'n for sleep and dreams, Which fortune-foughten souls esteem most dear,

Thou art the Lady of my Land of Rest,
And in thy presence only am I blest.

FINIS.

INDEX

"All's well that ends Well," 254 Bedford, Countess of, 9

Anatomie of Absurditie," 278 Berchan, St., 80, 85

Bale, John, 310, 313, 316, 320 Buchanan, George, 94