Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or, that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow, shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

Here are two more of HERRICK's sweet songs:

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;

And after they have shown their pride,

Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

Now let us rehearse that famous old song of MARLOWE, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentleman, Izaac Walton :

Here is the opening passage of a poem by DANIEL, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day:

:

He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!

He also wrote the following sprightly song:

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting, grows;

Most barren, with best using:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full, nor fasting:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries—
Heigh-ho!

Among favorite love-lyrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal, by LODGE. Here it is :

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, there percheth he

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he turns the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:

Whist, wanton, still ye,

Else I, with roses, every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence:

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you 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?