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And there a season atween June and May,

Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned,

A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play.

Was nought around but images of rest :

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,1 From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green,

Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played

And hurlèd everywhere their waters sheen ;

That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep : Yet all these sounds yblent inclinèd all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,

1 Cast. So used by Spenser.

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to

move,

As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood; And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out, below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsihead it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. J. THOMSON

84.-ROSALYNDE'S MADRIGAL

LOVE in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast :
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton! will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night :

Strike I my lute he tunes the string,
He music plays if so I sing,

He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist, wanton! still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence;

And bind you when you want to play,
For your offence :

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin.
Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?

He will repay me with annoy
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be!
Look in mine eyes: I like of thee.
O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

T. LODGE

85. CYNTHIA

(FROM THE LOST POEM "CYNTHIA," OF WHICH A FRAGMENT HAS BEEN LATELY RECOVERED)

SHE is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair.

Sorrow draws weakly, where love draws not

too:

Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear. Do then by dying what life cannot do:

Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,

To feed on hills or dales, where likes them best, Of what the summer or the spring-time yields; For love and time hath given thee leave to rest.

Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay
By often storms and winter's many blasts
All torn and rent, becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope my shepherd's staff (now age hath
brast

My pipe, which Love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon)

Despair hath often threatened to the fire,

As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.

Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws

on;

Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine

eyes:

Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone

Against the hill which over-weighty lies

For feeble arms or wasted strength to move;
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss,
My mind's affection and my soul's sole love,
Not mixed with fancy's chaff or fortune's dross.

To God I leave it, Who first gave it me,
And I her gave, and she returned again,
As it was hers; so let His mercies be

Of my last comforts the essential mean.
But be it so or not, the effects are past:
Her love hath end; my woe must ever last.
W. RALEIGH

86.-WALY, WALY

O WALY, waly up the bank,

O waly, waly, down the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,

Where I and my Love were wont to gae!
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thocht it was a trustie tree,

But first it bowed and syne it brak',—
Sae my true1 Love did lichtlie2 me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,

And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

1 Troth.

2 Make light of.

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