with its curious resemblance to 'A widow bird sate mourning for her love The sonnets of Lodge are gorgeous in language, but lax in construction; he did not understand the art of concentrating and sustaining his fancy in a sonnet; but the volume entitled Phillis contains many beautiful fragments and irregular pieces, tending more or less to the sonnet form. His epics of Scilla's Metamorphosis and Elstred are rambling pieces in the six-line stanza, which led the way for The Rape of Lucrece and Venus and Adonis ; but they reveal no real faculty for telling a classical story. In each poem the action is neglected, and the tale, such as it is, is smothered under a shower of courtly, flowery fancies. A poem 'in commendation of a solitary life,' is one of Lodge's most admirable pieces, but is too long to be given here, and does not lend itself to quotation. He was a poet of fine genius, fervent, harmonious, and florid; but he was too sympathetic or not strong enough to resist the current of contemporary taste, running swiftly towards conceit. EDMUND W. GOSSE. ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL. Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in ; 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, Spare not, but play thee. ROSADER'S DESCRIPTION OF ROSALYND. Like to the clear in highest sphere, Whether unfolded or in twines; Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud Or like the silver-crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; Her lips are like two budded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity. Her neck like to a stately tower, Where Love himself emprisoned lies, Her paps are centres of delight, With orient pearl, with ruby red, Yet soft to touch, and sweet in view; The gods are wounded in her sight, And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, And at her eyes his brand doth light. Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosalynd; Since for her fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine. Heigh ho! fair Rosalynd! Heigh ho! my heart, would God that she were mine! THE HARMONY OF LOVE. A very phoenix, in her radiant eyes I leave mine age, and get my life again; True Hesperus, I watch her fall and rise, And with my tears extinguish all my pain; My lips for shadows shield her springing roses, Mine eyes for watchmen guard her while she sleepeth, My reasons serve to 'quite her faint supposes ; Her fancy, mine; my faith her fancy keepeth ; PHILLIS' SICKNESS. How languisheth the primrose of Love's garden! O spare, and plague thou me for her offences ! Blush through the milk-white veil that holds you covered; If heat or cold may mitigate your anguish, I'll burn, I'll freeze, but you shall be recovered. LOVE'S WANTONNESS. Love guides the roses of thy lips, Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine. Love works thy heart within his fire, And of my plaints doth make a game. Love, let me cull her choicest flowers, |