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


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 Aight,
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'U count your power not worth a pin ;
Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be ;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

The following impassioned and beautiful lines are the commencement of a poem, entitled The Exequy, written by Dr. King:

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Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges, this complaint ;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,
Receive a strew of weeping verse,
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see
Quite melted into tears for thee!
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee; thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,
Though almost blind; for thee (loved clay)
I languish out, not live, the day,
Using no other exercise :
But what I practise with mine eyes :
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily Time creeps about

To one that mourns: this, only this,
My exercise and business is :
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolved into showers.

His terse lines on Life are more familiar :

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the Aights of eagles are ;
Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew :
Or like a wind that chafes the food,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
E’en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night :
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The Spring entombed in Autumn lies ;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,

The flight is past—and man forgot!
SIR H. Wotton's admired lines, entitled The Happy Life, are
well worthy of a place among the most perfect passages of our
English poetry :-

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will ;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame or private breath!

Who God doth late and early pray

More of His grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend :
This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or fear to fall ;
Lord of himself—though not of lands;

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Wotton is also justly celebrated for his brilliant stanzas addressed to the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I. :

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your numbers than your light,-

You common people of the skies,
What are you when the moon shall rise ?

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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 shall raise ?

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Another of those courtly minstrels was Sir John SUCKLING ; and here, with some of his graceful contributions to our poetic anthology, we conclude the first of our evening studies :

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?

Pr’ythee, why so pale ?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Pr’ythee, why so pale ?

Why so pale and mute, young sinner ?

Pr’ythee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't move her,

Saying nothing do't ?
Pr’ythee, why so mute ?

Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her ;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her ;
The devil take her!

His most celebrated piece is The Wedding, written in honour of the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. Here are a few of the sparkling stanzas :

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,

It was too wide a peck:

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