Full of arrows that out-brave

Dian's shafts, where, if he have

Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

FIRST GRACE.

Still the fairest are his fuel,
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood;
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to reason.

SECOND GRACE.

Trust him not, his words, though sweet,

Seldom with his heart do meet,

All his practise is deceit,

Every gift it is a bait :

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason in his tears.

THIRD GRACE.

Idle minutes are his reign,

Then the straggler makes his gain

By presenting maids with toys,

And would have you think them joys;

'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

148

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

FIRST GRACE.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but shew him.

SECOND GRACE.

Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, you'll not abide him.

THIRD GRACE.

Since ye hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

JONSON.

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

HAIL, Bishop Valentine! whose day this is;

All the air is thy diocese,

And all the chirping choristers,

And other birds, are thy parishioners;

Thou marryest every year,

The lyric lark and the grave whispering dove;

The sparrow that neglects his life for love,
The household bird with the red stomacher;
Thou mak'st the blackbird speed as soon
As doth the goldfinch or the halcyon-
This day, more cheerfully than ever, shine,-
This day, which might inflame thyself, old Va-

lentine.

DONNE.

LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE.

WHAT! for a word—an idle word!

And more in jest than earnest spoken? Were I to note each breath I heard,

My heart would soon be changed-or broken; 'Tis not when words are sweetest said,

Love's living flower blooms there to meet us, The flower of love may still be dead,

Although its fragrance seems to greet us!
Then weigh not thou a word so slight,
Nor keep thy gentle bosom grieving;
The tongue that finds things ever right,
Believe me, love's a thing deceiving.

Oh, if my heart had sought thee less,
Mine eyes loved less to wander round thee,
That word of wounded tenderness-

That hasty word-had never found thee.
The dew that seeks the sun's fond gaze,
His golden lips in gladness beaming,
Meets death within his smiling rays-

His gilded fondness is but seeming ! Then weigh not thou a word so slight,

Nor keep thy gentle bosom grieving; The tongue that finds things ever right, Believe me love's a tongue deceiving.

C. SWAIN.

TO HIS LOVE,

ON ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

MUSE, bid the morn awake,
Sad winter now declines,
Each bird doth choose a mate,
This day's St. Valentine's;
For that good bishop's sake
Get up, and let us see
What beauty it shall be
That fortune us assigns.

But lo! in happy hour,

The place wherein she lies
In yonder climbing tower

Gilt by the glittering rise;
Oh, Jove that in a shower,
As once that thunderer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
That I could her surprise!

Her canopy I'll draw,

With spangled plumes bedight,

No mortal ever saw

So ravishing a sight;

That it the gods might awe,

And powerfully transpierce
The globy universe,

Out-shooting every light.

My lips I'll softly lay

Upon her heavenly cheek;
Dyed, like the dawning day,
As polished ivory, sleek:
And in her ear I'll say,-

"Oh thou bright morning-star,
"Tis I that come so far,

My Valentine to seek.

"Each little bird, this tide, Doth choose her loved peer,

Which constantly abide

In wedlock all the year;
As Nature is their guide,
So may we two be true

This year, nor change for new,
As turtles coupled were.

"Let's laugh at them that choose
Their Valentines by lot,
To wear their names that use,
Whom idly they have got.
Such poor choice we refuse,
Saint Valentine befriend;
We thus his morn may spend,

Else, Muse, awake her not."

DRAYTON.