THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY QUEEN.

WITH fragrant flowers we strew the way,
And make this our chief holiday;
For though this clime was bless'd of yore,
Yet was it never proud before:

O beauteous Queen of second Troy,
Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm,
And satyrs dance about the palm;
Now earth with verdure newly dight,
Gives perfect signs of her delight:

O beauteous Queen of second Troy,
Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now birds record new harmony,
And trees do whistle melody,
And every thing that nature breeds
Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds:

O beauteous Queen of second Troy,
Accept of our unfeigned joy.

The above is by THOMAS WATSON, whose poetical works are numerous, and of various merit. Stephens prefers his Sonnets to those of Shakespeare. He was born in 1560, and died in 1592.

TAKE ALL ADVENTURES PATIENTLY.

THOUGH pinching be a privy pain,

To want's desire, that is but vain;

Though some be curs'd, and some be kind,

Subdue the worst with patient mind.

RALEIGH'S SONGS.

Who sits so high, who sits so low,
Who feels such joy, that feels no woe?
When bale is bad, good boot is nigh,
Take all adventures patiently.

To marry a sheep, to marry a shrew,
To meet with a friend, to meet with a foe,
Those checks of chance can no man fly,

But God himself that rules the sky.

25

From the Play of " Tom Tyler and his Wife," 1598; in Garrick's Scarce Plays.

A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE.

HEY down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing
For maidens most unfitting;
And so think I,

With a down, down derry.

When women knew no woe,

But lived themselves to please,

Man's feigning guiles they did not know,
The ground of their disease.

Unborn was false suspect;

No thought of jealousy;

From wanton toys, and fond affect,
The virgin's life was free.

D

At length men used charms,
To which, what maids gave ear,
Embracing gladly endless harms,
Anon enthralled were.

Thus women welcom'd woe,
Disguis'd in name of love;
A jealous hell, a painted show,
So shall they find that prove.

Hey down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens most unfitting.

DULCINA.

As at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a shepherd and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour;
But from her looks a wound he took,
So deep, that for a further boon

The nymph he prays; whereto she says,
Forego me now, come to me soon!

But in vain she did conjure him

To depart her presence so,

Having a thousand tongues to allure him,

And but one to bid him go;

RALEIGH'S SONGS.

When lips invite, and eyes delight,

And cheeks as fresh as rose in June, Persuade delay, what boots to say, Forego me now, come to me soon!

But what promise or profession
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of such beauty for a hope!

Or for the sight of lingering night,
Forego the present joys of noon,
Though ne'er so fair her speeches were,
Forego me now, come to me soon!

SHALL I, LIKE A HERMIT.

SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it, where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalues me,

What care I how fair she be.

Were her tresses angel gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid,

27

And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;

If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be.

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be.

No, she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too;
But when she by chance hath got
To her heart a second lot,

Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be.

The three foregoing Ballads are by SIR WALTER RALEIGH, whose chequered and eventful life is too well known, to require in this place, any comments of ours. His poetical works, although the meanest of his literary productions, are pure and classical; while his lyrics, were they generally known, would merit insertion in any collection. He was born at Haye's Farm in Devonshire, in 1552; and died upon the scaffold in 1618. See his "Last Hours," by D'Israeli.