My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my goods are but vain hopes of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done!

My Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
My fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is past, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done!

HERRICK'S lyrics are among the most sprightly and picturesque that we possess; they are fragrant with the aroma of Spring flowers. Listen to his lines addressed to "Primroses filled with morning dew:"_

Why do

ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years,

Or warp'd, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep:

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:

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hill and valley, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

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?