Let Venus have thy graces her resigned,

And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres:
But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind
To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears.
Yield to the marble thy hard heart again;
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain.
SAMUEL DANIEL.

CXLII

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
O give my passions leave to run their race;
Let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,-
But do not will me from my love to fly.

I do not envy Aristotle's wit,

Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame;
Nor ought do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame
But that which once may win thy cruel heart :
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

CXLIII

FALSE though she be to me and love,

I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.

WILLIAM Congreve.

CXLIV

AWAKE, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres shake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee:
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,
Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,—
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;
For thee would unashamèd herself forsake:
Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake, the land is scattered with light, and see,
Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree:
And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake;
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee:
She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake,
And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!"
ROBERT BRIDGES.

CXLV

WHAT light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by,
And feed upon the shadow of perfection.
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale ;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon :
She is my essence; and I leave to be,
If I be not by her fair influence

Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXLVI

I NEVER drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,

But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,

I am no pick-purse of another's wit.

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease

My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow

In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess we the cause?

Or so? Much less.

What, is it this? Fie, no. How then? Sure, thus it is,—

My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

CXLVII

SONG

To thy lover

Dear, discover

That sweet blush of thine that shameth

When those roses

It discloses

All the flowers that Nature nameth.

In free air,

Flow thy hair,

That no more Summer's best dresses

Be beholden

For their golden

Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses.

O deliver

Love his quiver;

From thy eyes he shoots his arrows:

Where Apollo

Cannot follow,

Feathered with his mother's sparrows.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

CXLVIII

TO ELECTRA

I DARE not ask a kiss,

I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that, or this,

I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share

Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air

That lately kissèd thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

CXLIX

ECHO, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills, Knows the name of my fierce Fair And sounds the accents of my ills.

Each thing pities my despair,

Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she-O cruel maid !—

Doth me and my true love despise ; My life's flourish is decayed,

That depended on her eyes.

But her will must be obeyed,

And well he ends, for love who dies.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

CL

DIVINE destroyer, pity me no more,

Or else more pity me.

Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more,

Or else more cruelty!

For left thus as I am,

My heart is ice and flame;

And languishing thus, I

Can neither live nor die !