All heads must come to the cold tomb; Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Listen to the sweet music and melancholy flow of this fine old song: Go sit by the summer sea, thou whom scorn wasteth, And let thy musing be where the flood hasteth; Mark, how o'er ocean's breast rolls the hoar billow's crest,- Griev'st thou that hearts should change? Lo, where life reigneth, Or the free sight doth range, what long remaineth? Spring, with her flowers, doth die, fast fades the gilded sky, Smile, then, ye sage and wise, and if love sever CAREW, the "sprightly, polished, and perspicuous," wrote sundry love-ditties: one of his most popular begins— Ask me no more where Jove bestows, * * His other noted song commences thus: * He that loves a rosy cheek, or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, gentle thoughts and calm desires; Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. * Here, also, we have some terse lines of his, touching things terrene: Fame's but a hollow echo-gold, pure clay,— Beauty, the eye's idol-but a damask skin; State, but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds,-embroidered trains, And blood allied to greatness, is alone Inherited-not purchased, nor our own. Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, The "gallant and accomplished" LOVELACE wrote this beautiful song to his mistress, on joining the army of the King: Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, that from the nunnery I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more. His fine lines written during his incarceration, To Althea, com mence: When Love, with unconfinèd wings, hovers within my gates, His last is the finest stanza :— Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; Love, the great theme of the poets, has been in these pages presented in most of its Protean aspects; but as it is classed among the noblest virtues, we can hardly have too much of it from the poets. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that "we need not ridicule a passion, which he who never felt, never was happy; and he who laughs at, never deserves to feel-a passion which has caused the change of empires and the loss of worlds-a passion which has inspired heroism and subdued avarice." Here is an airy, bird-like lyric, by HEYWOOD:— Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day; With night we banish sorrow; Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast: O fly, make haste! See, see, she falls Sing round about her rosy bed, That, waking, she may wonder. LYLY's genius for lyric verse is seen in the following little Song of the Fairies: The following exquisitely sportive lines are also by this noted dramatist : Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses: Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows; Loses them too, then down he throws Growing on's cheek, but none knows how, TITCHBOURNE, who was one of the victims of political despotism in 1568, wrote these quaint and touching lines the night preceding his execution : My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; |