And love itself is but a jest,
Devised by idle heads,

To catch young fancies in the nest,
And lay it in fools' beds;

That being hatched by beauty's eyes,
They may be fledged ere they be wise,

But yet it is a sport to see

How wit will run on wheels;
While wit cannot persuaded be,

With that which reason feels-
That women's eyes and stars are odd,
And love is but a feigned god.

But such as will run mad with will
I cannot clear their sight,

But leave them to their study still,
To look where is no light;

Till time too late we make them try,

They study false astronomy.

"John Dowland," says a note in the Rev. Alexander Dyce's edition of the Poems of Shakspeare," was a famous latinist." In a sonnet often attributed to Shakspeare, because inserted in his "Passionate Pilgrim," but published by Richard Barnefield, a year before the "Passionate Pilgrim " was given to the world, occur the lines ;

"Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute, doth ravish human sense."

THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

From "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." RICHARD ALLISON, 1606.
THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose,

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fell'd with snow
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

This song is apparently the original which suggested to Herrick the lines entitled Cherry Ripe." Having been somewhat altered and adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles Horn, the song of "Cherry Ripe" became very popular about the year 1825.

ONCE did my thoughts both ebb and flow,
As passion did them move;

Once did I hope, straight fear again,
And then I was in love.

Once did I waking spend the night,
And told how many minutes move;

Once did I wishing waste the day,
And then I was in love.

Once by my carving true love's knot,

The weeping trees did prove,

That wounds and tears were both our lots, And then I was in love.

Once did I breathe another's breath,

And in my mistress move; Once was I not mine own at all,

And then I was in love.

Once wore I bracelets made of hair,
And collars did approve;

Once were my clothes made out of wax,
And then I was in love.

Once did I sonnet to my saint,
My soul in numbers move;
Once did I tell a thousand lies,
And then I was in love.

Once in my breast did dangling hang

A little turtle dove;

Once, in a word, I was a fool,

And then I was in love.

A DOUBT RESOLVED.

DR. R. HUGHES. From the third book of" Lawes's Ayres."

FAIN would I love, but that I fear
I quickly should the willow wear;
Fain would I marry, but men say,
When love is tied he will away;
Then tell me, love, what shall I do,
To cure these fears, whene'er I woo?

The fair one she's a mark to all,
The brown each one doth lovely call,
The black's a pearl in fair men's eyes,
The rest will stoop at any prize;
Then tell me love what shall I do,
To cure these fears whene'er I woo?

Young lover know it is not I,
That wound with fear or jealousy ;
Nor do men ever feel these smarts,
Until they have confined their hearts;
Then if you'll cure your fears, you shall
Love neither fair, black, brown, but all,

DEAREST! DO NOT YOU DELAY ME, From FLETCHER's Comedy of the "Spanish Curate," 1622, DEAREST! do not you delay me,

Since thou know'st I must be gone; Wind and tide, 'tis thought doth stay me, But 'tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian odours far excel.

Oh! then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee
But perfume this neighbouring air,

Else dull silence, sure, will starve me; 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which, being restrain'd a heart is broken.

YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.

SIR HENRY WOTTON, born 1568, died 1639.

You meaner beauties of the night
That poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number than your light;

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

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 chaunters of the wood,

That warble forth dame nature's lays,
Thinking your passion understood

1

By your weak accents-what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

So when my mistress shall be seen,

In sweetness of her looks and mind;
By virtue first, then choice a queen,
Tell me if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

This song is supposed to have been inspired by the charms of the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of King James I. It is printed with additional stanzas in Chambers's "Scottish Songs," as the composition of Henry Lord Darnley, the unfortunate husband of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. The additional verses are of no great merit, and do not seem to have been the composition of Sir Henry Wotton. Dr. Percy has altered the word " moon," in the concluding line of the first stanza, to "sun," but without sufficiently considering whether the alteration were an improvement. The "sun" is not one of the beauties of the night. The poet knew his meaning better than his critic.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

SIR ROBERT AYTOUN, born 1570, died 1638.
I LOV'D thee once, I'll love no more,

Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wert before,

What reason I should be the same?
He that can love, unlov'd again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
GOD send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,

If thou hadst still continued mine;

Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,

I might perchance have yet been thine:

But thou thy freedom did recal,

That if thou might elsewhere enthral;
And then how could I but disdain,

A captive's captive to remain,