Or why should Pride Humility make thrall,
And injuries the innocent oppress?

Heav'ns! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime.

A REPLY.-CXXX.

WHO do in good delight,

That sov'reign justice ever doth reward;

And though sometime it smite,

Yet it doth them regard:

For ev'n amidst their grief

They find a strong relief,

And death itself can work them no despite.

Again, in evil who do joy,

And do in it grow old,

In midst of mirth are charg'd with sin's annoy,
Which is in conscience scroll'd;

And when their life's frail thread is cut by time,
They punishment find equal to each crime.

CXXXI.

Look how in May the rose,

At sulphur's azure fumes,

In a short space her crimson blush doth lose,
And, all amaz'd, a pallid white assumes.

So time our best consumes,

Makes youth and beauty pass,

And what was pride turns horror in our glass.

THE BOAR'S HEAD.-CXXXII.

AMIDST a pleasant green

Which sun did seldom see,

Where play'd Anchises with the Cyprian Queen, The head of a wild boar hung on a tree:

And, driven by Zephyrs' breath,

Did fall, and wound the lovely youth beneath;

On whom yet scarce appears

So much of blood as Venus' eyes shed tears.
But, ever as she wept, her anthem was,
Change, cruel change, alas!

My Adon, whilst thou liv'd, was by thee slain;
Now dead, this lover must thou kill again ?

TO AN OWL.-CXXXIII.

ASCALAPHUS, tell me,

So may night's curtain long time cover thee,
So ivy ever may

From irksome light keep thy chamber and bed;
And, in moon's liv'ry clad,

So may'st thou scorn the choristers of day—

When plaining thou dost stay

Near to the sacred window of my dear,

Dost ever thou her hear

To wake, and steal swift hours from drowsy sleep?

And, when she wakes, doth e'er a stolen sigh creep

Into thy listening ear?

If that deaf god doth yet her careless keep,
In louder notes my grief with thine express,
Till by thy shrieks she think on my distress.

DAPHNIS.-CXXXIV.

Now Daphnis' arms did grow

In slender branches; and her braided hair,

Which like gold waves did flow,

In leafy twigs was stretched in the air ;
The grace of either foot

Transform'd was to a root;

A tender bark enwraps her body fair.

He who did cause her ill

Sore wailing stood, and from his blubber'd eyne
Did show'rs of tears upon the rind distil,

Which, water'd thus, did bud and turn more green.
O deep despair! O heart-appalling grief!
When that doth woe increase should bring relief.

THE BEAR OF LOVE.-CXXXV.

IN woods and desart bounds

A beast abroad doth roam;

So loving sweetness and the honey-comb,

It doth despise the arms of bees and wounds:
I, by like pleasure led,

To prove what heav'ns did place

Of sweet on your fair face,

Whilst therewith I am fed,

Rest careless (bear of love) of hellish smart,
And how those eyes afflict and wound my heart.

FIVE SONNETS FOR GALATEA.

CXXXVI.

STREPHON, in vain thou bring'st thy rhimes and songs,
Deck'd with grave Pindar's old and wither'd flow'rs;
In vain thou count'st the fair Europa's wrongs,
And her whom Jove deceiv'd in golden show'rs.
Thou hast slept never under myrtle's shed;
Or, if that passion hath thy soul oppress'd,
It is but for some Grecian mistress dead,
Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy breast;
How can true love with fables hold a place?
Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love,
Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove:
Thou suest for grace, in scorn more to disgrace.
I cannot think thou wert charm'd by my looks,
O no! thou learn'st thy love in lovers' books.

CXXXVII.

No more with candid words infect mine ears;

Tell me no more how that you pine in anguish ;
When sound you sleep, no more say that you languish ;
No more in sweet despite say you spend tears.

Who hath such hollow eyes as not to see,

How those that are hair-brain'd boast of Apollo,
And bold give out the Muses do them follow,
Though in Love's library, yet no lovers be.
If we, poor souls! least favour but them shew,
That straight in wanton lines abroad is blaz'd;
Their names doth soar on our fame's overthrow;
Mark'd is our lightness, whilst their wits are prais'd.
In silent thoughts who can no secret cover,
He may, say we, but not well, be a lover.

CXXXVIII.

YE who with curious numbers, sweetest art,
Frame Dædal nets our beauty to surprise,
Telling strange castles builded in the skies,
And tales of Cupid's bow and Cupid's dart;
Well, howsoe'er ye act your feigned smart,
Molesting quiet ears with tragic cries,、
When you accuse our chastity's best part,
Nam'd cruelty, ye seem not half too wise;
Yea, ye yourselves it deem most worthy praise,
Beauty's best guard; that dragon, which doth keep
Hesperian fruit, the spur in you does raise,
That Delian wit that otherways may sleep,
To cruel nymphs your lines do fame afford,
Oft many pitiful, not one poor word.

CXXXIX.

If it be love, to wake out all the night,

And watchful eyes drive out in dewy moans,

R