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HENRY VIII.

LORD SURREY.

HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey, is confidered as the firft English claffic. His Poems, together with thofe of Sir Thomas Wyat, the elder, and those of uncertain authors, were published by Tottel, in 1557, and 1565. A very fatisfactory account of the contributors to this curious mifcellany may be found in the third volume of Warton's Hiftory of English Poetry. Tottel's editions are now extremely fcarce, and even the copy of them printed in 1717, in Octavo, is not very common.

GIVE place, ye lovers; here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain;

My lady's beauty paffeth more

The best of yours, I dare well faine,
'Than doth the fun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.

And thereto hath a truth as juft,
As had Penelope the fair;

For what she faith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were.
And virtues hath she many moe
Than I with pen have skill to show.

I could rehearse, if that I would,
The whole effect of nature's plaint;
When she had loft the perfect mould,
The like to whom she could not paint.
With wringing hands how she did cry!
And what she said I know it, I:

I know she swore, with raging mind,
Her kingdom only fet apart,

There was no loss by law of kind,
That could have gone fo near her heart;
And this was chiefly all her pain,
She could not make the like again.

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefeft work fhe wrought;
In faith, methinks, fome better ways
On your behalf might well be fought,
Than to compare (as ye have done)
To match the candle with the fun.

ODE.

THE foote feason, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With
green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale;
The nightingale, with feathers new, fhe fings,
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come: for every fpray now springs.
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float, with new repaired scale;
The adder all her flough away fhe flings;
The swift swallow purfueth the flies fmall;
The busy bee, her honey now she mings,
Winter is gone, that was the flower's bale;
And thus I fee, among these pleasant things,
Each care decays, and yet my forrow springs!

SIR THOMAS WYAT.

YOUR looks fo often caft,
Your eyes fo friendly roll'd,
Your fight fixed fo faft,
Always one to behold;

Tho' hide it fain ye

would,

It plainly doth declare,
Who hath your heart in hold,
And where good-will ye bear.

Fain would ye find a cloak

Your burning fire to hide,
Yet both the flame and fmoke
Breaks out on every fide.
Ye cannot love fo guide
That it no iffue win;
Abroad needs must it glide

That burns fo hot within.

SINCE love will needs that I must love,

Of very force I muft agree:

And fince no chance may it remove,

In wealth and in adversity,
I fhall always myself apply,
To serve and fuffer patiently.

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