Who would not this sight desire, Though he thought to see no more?

O fair eyes, yet let me see

One good look, and I am gone;

Look on me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Coridon.

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy silly swain ;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.

A SWEET PASTORAL.

FROM THE SAME.

GOOD Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony;
The weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.

Sweet love, begone awhile,
Thou know'st my heaviness;

Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness,

See how my little flock

That lov'd to feed on high,

Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees,
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.

Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now, alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.

The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour,
And Phillida the fair hath lost

The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,

That how to hope upon delights,
Is but a mere deceit.

And, therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best,
Do now thy heavenly cunning use,
To set my heart at rest.

And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend, Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end.

DR. THOMAS LODGE,

BORN 1556-DIED 1625,

WAS of a family in Lincolnshire, and was educated at Oxford. He practised as a physician in London, and is supposed to have fallen a martyr to the memorable plague of 1625. He wrote several plays and other poetical works of considerable merit, and translated the works of Josephus into English.

ROSADER'S SONETTO.

FROM LODGE'S ROMANCE, CALLED EUPHUES'S Golden

LEGACY.

TURN I my looks unto the skies,

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;

If so I look upon the ground,

Love then in every flower is found;

Search I the shade to flee my pain,

Love meets me in the shades again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my moan;

If so I mourn, he weeps

with me,

And where I am there will he be ;
When as I talk of Rosalind,

The God from coyness waxeth kind,

And seems in self-same frame to fly,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue,
For why, than love I am more true:
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.

ANOTHER.

FROM THE SAME.

FIRST shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves,

The day want sun, and sun want bright,
The night want shade, the dead men graves,
The April flow'rs, and leaves, and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the top of highest hill
By humble plains be overpry'd,
And poets scorn the Muses' quill,
And fish forsake the water glide,
And Iris lose her colour'd weed,
Before I false thee at thy need.

First direful Hate shall turn to peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain,

And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And Envy pity every pain,

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with corn,
And Snow bemoisten July's face,
And Winter spring, and Summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

FROM THE SAME.

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, then pierceth he

With pretty slight;

And makes his pillow of my knee
The live-long night.