SONG.

ANACREONTIC. INVEST my head with fragrant rose,

That on fair Flora's bosom grows ! Distend my veins with purple juice, That mirth may through my soul diffuse.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,

Inspires our youth with flames divine. Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I In Cyprian shades will bathing lie; Whose snows if too much cooling, then Bacchus shall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,

Inspires our youth with flames divine. Life's short and winged pleasures fly; Who mourning live, do living die. On down and floods then, swan-like, I Will stretch my limbs, and singing die.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine, Inspires our youth with flames divine. ROBERT AERRICK.

THE MAD MAID's SONG.

GOOD-morrow to the day so fair ;

Good-morrow, Sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morrow to this primrose too ;

Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid.
I'll seek him there! I know, ere this,

The cold, cold earth doth shaké him ;
But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray, hurt him not ; though he be dead

He knows well who do love him ;
And who with green-turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender-pray, take heed-

With bands of cowslips bind him ;
And bring him home--but 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him.

A
S Julia once a slumbering lay

It chanc'd a Bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir,
So Julia took the Pilferer.

1

And thus surpris'd, as filchers use,
He thus began himself to' excuse :
Sweet Lady-Flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought ;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much Syrup ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing ;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her Ladyship:
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That that he took, and that was all.
At which she smild, and bade him go
And take his bag ; but thus much know,
When next he came a pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive,
Honey enough to fill his live.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

SONNET. YOU

meaner beauties of the night,

Which poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies,

What are you when the sun doth rise? Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the rose is blown? Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise

When Philomel her voice doth raise ?
So, when my mistress shall be seen

In sweetness of her looks, and mind ;
By virtues first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

STANZAS From the Reliquiæ Wottoniane, 1672. HEART-TEARING cares, and quivering fears,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still,
And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will;

Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be!
Fly from our country pastimes! fly,
Sad troop of human misery!
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azured heav'n, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty.

Peace and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals ! did you know Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers. Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may

shake, Bat blust'ring care could never tempest make,

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance, But of our kids, that frisk and prance ;: Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are butting one another, Which done, both pleating run each to his mother; And wounds are never found Save what the plough-share gives the ground. Go! let the diving Negro seek For gems, hid in some forlorn creek, We all pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ;

And gold ne'er here appears

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Blest, silent groves! O may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery ! May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these

mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains ! Which we may every year Find, when we come a-fishing here.

Ignoto.

Sir Walter Roleigh.