Since then this is my state, And nothing worse than this, Behold the map of death-like life, Exiled from lovely bliss: Alone among the world, Strange with my friends to be, Showing my fall to them that scorn, See not, or will not see; My heart a wilderness, My studies only fear, And, as in shadows of curst death, A prospect of despair. My exercise must be My horrors to repeat; My peace, joy, end, and sacrifice, My food, the time that was; The time to come, my fast; For drink, the barren thirst I feel Sighs and salt tears my bath; To show me he most wretched is Forlorn desires my clock, That Time hath stolen love, life, and all But my distress away. For music, heavy sighs; My walk an inward woe; And I myself am he That doth with none compare, Let no man ask my name, Nor what else I should be; XXII. MONTANUS' FANCY GRAVEN UPON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE.1 (By Thomas Lodge. Born 1555? died 1625.) IRST shall the heavens want starry light; graves; The April flowers and leaf and tree, From Lodge's " Rosalind; Euphues' Golden Legacy," 1590, 1592, &c. Reprinted in Collier's "" Shakespeare's Library," 1843. First shall the tops of highest hills And fish forsake the water glide, First direful Hate shall turn to Peace, And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile, First Time shall stay his stayless race, And Winter bless his brows with corn, And snow bemoisten July's face, And Winter spring, and Summer mourn, XXIII. THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.1 (Before 1593.) WEET violets, Love's Paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, which you couched bear Within your paly faces, "Phoenix Nest," 1593, p. 95; “ England's Helicon," 1600, sign. T, signed "Ignoto." Thence in Brydges' and the Oxford editions of Raleigh's "Poems." Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind That plays amidst the plain; If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find, Be proud to touch those places! And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear, You, pretty daughters of the earth and sun,With mild and seemly breathing straight display My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone! Vermilion roses, that, with new day's rise The rich adorned rays of roseate rising morn; Do pluck your pure ere Phoebus view the land, And veil your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn; If chance my mistress traces Fast by your flowers to take the summer's air; And tell love's torments, sorrowing for her friend, XXIV. THERE IS NONE, O, NONE BUT YOU!! (By Robert Earl of Essex. Born 1567; died 1601.) HERE is none, 0, none but you, Who from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight. Others' beauties others move: In you I all the graces find; To make them happy that are kind. Women in frail beauty trust; For that can't dissembled be. Dear, afford me then your sight! That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books, Which when after ages view, All shall wonder and despair,— Women, to find a man so true, And men, a woman half so fair! Printed from Aubrey's MSS. by Dr. Bliss, edit. of Wood's "Fasti," vol. i. p. 245. |