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Little is known of this poet, save that he attended the uni

versity of Oxford, and studied medicine at Avignon, where he obtained a diploma. He was of the Roman Catholic faith; and when he settled in London as a medical practitioner, he gained extensive practice from the patronage of that party. It is thought he was swept away, among many other unnoticed individuals, by the plague in 1625.

ROSALIND'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 pierceth he
With pretty slight;
And makes his pillow of my knee
The live-long night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if I but sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting;

Ah! wanton, will ye?

Else I with roses every day
Will whip ye bence,
And bind ye, when ye long to play,
For your offence;
I'll shut my eyes to keep ye 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;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
0, Cupid ! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

FROM THE ROMANCE CALLED EUPHUES's

GOLDEN LEGACY.

TURN I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ;
If so I look upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to flee my pain,
Love meets me in the shades again ;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred love ;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing ;

If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be ;
When as I talk of Rosalind,
The god from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in self-same frame to fly,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue,
For why, than love I am more true :
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

BORN 1560-EXECUTED 1595. WHATEVER was right or wrong in the faith of this jesuit

priest, he died its martyr. There is a biographical notice of Southwell, and a fine specimen of his poetry, in the little volume which preceded this.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.
Love mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little love
Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore ;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core,

May never was the month of love ;
For May is full of flowers ;
But rather April, wet by kind;
For love is full of showers.

With soothing words inthralled souls
She chains in servile bands;
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap, immortal harms ;
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely ;
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

BORN 1562-KILLED IN A FRAY 1592. MARLOWE was a distinguished dramatic writer, and consi

derable attention has lately been given to some of his tragedies. Meanwhile one little song has preserved the me. mory of “Brave Marlowe bathed in Thespian springs”

fresh and attractive, while the contemporary authors, of ponderous volumes of legends and allegories, are forgotten by all but antiquaries. Marlowe studied at Cambridge, and came to London, where, from an actor of humble name, he became a celebrated tragic poet. He had many warm admirers, and some bitter enemies. Of Marlowe, Drayton says, that he had

In him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had : his raptures were
All air and fire.

Marlowe translated several poems from the Latin, and

among others Ovid's Epistles, which was ordered to be publicly burned. His course of life, from his situation as a comedian, and writer for the play-house as it existed in 1590, was such as must be more lamented than wondered at. The unhappy manner of his death is solemnly recorded in “ Beard's Theatre of God's Judgments on Unbelievers.” In a fray, which, it is said, took place in a brothel, a rival or antagonist in the lowest ranks of society turned Marlowe's dagger against his own breast, and thus made the unhappy poet in some measure the instrument of his own destruction. As the nature of this little work excludes specimens of dramatic poetry, the song of the Passionate Shepherd is selected from Marlowe's works. It is the song of Isaac Walton's pretty Milk-Maid," Old poetry," says the ancient Angler, “but choicely good.”

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

MISTRESS.
COME live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,

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