And fates my hopes betray),

Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise :
If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;

Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.
-The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air

Makes vanish every star:

Night, like a drunkard, reels

Beyond the hills, to show his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; Here is the pleasant place

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

THE QUALITY OF A KISS.

HE kiss, with so much strife

Which late I got (sweet heart),

Was it a sign of death, or was it life?

Of life it could not be,

For I by it did sigh my soul to thee:

Nor was it death-death doth no joy impart.

Thou silent stand'st, ah! what didst thou bequeath,

A dying life to me, or living death?

SLEEPING BEAUTY.

SIGHT too dearly bought:

She sleeps, and though those eyes
Which lighten Cupid's sighs

Be closed, yet such a grace

Environeth that place,

That I through wonder to grow faint am brought :

Suns, if eclipsed, you have such power divine,

What power have I t'endure you when you shine?

Richard Allison.

[From "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke.”—1606.]

"THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE."

HERE 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 filled with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.*

* It is probable that Herrick's Song of "Cherry Ripe" was suggested by this stanza.

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 Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Giles Fletcher.

[BORN 1588. DIED 1623.]

PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG.

OVE is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows;

Love doth make the heavens to move,

And the sun doth burn in love:

Love, the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows, lions wild,
Softened by love grow tame and mild.
Love, no med'cine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas;

Not all the skill his wounds can staunch;
Not all the sea his thirst can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear

Once a leafy coat to wear,

While in his leaves there shrouded lay

Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me,

Thy wooing shall my winning be.