["The Fair Maid of the Exchange." 1637.]

Ye little birds that sit and sing

Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.

Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note.
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber;

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking, she may wonder.

Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you!
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

1590-164 5.

["Britannia's Pastorals." 1616.]

SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me;

And if such a woman move,
As I now shall versify,
Be assured 'tis she, or none
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art:

In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embraced a heart.
So much good so truly tried,

Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath without desire

To make known how much she hath ;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,

Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth;

Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth :

Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is and if you know

Such a one as I have sung;

Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young:

Be assured 'tis she, or none,

That I love, and love alone.

WELCOME, WELCOME DO I SING.

[From a manuscript copy of his poems in the Lansdowne collection.]

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,

Far more welcome than the Spring;

He that parteth from you never,

Shall enjoy a spring forever.

Love, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale,

Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields,

Never, never, shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,

Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring,
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1585-1649.

THE fame of Drummond of Hawthornden rests on his sonnets, many of which were inspired by love, and are among the best of the kind in the language. The name of the lady whose name they embalm was Mary Cunningham, a daughter of the Laird of Barns. Drummond fell in love with her, while cultivating his poetical talents at Hawthornden, after the death of his father, in 1610. She returned his passion, and the marriage-day was fixed; but before it arrived she was carried off by a fever. Drummond returned to his poetical studies, and in 1616 published a volume entitled, "POEMS: AMOROUS, FUNERALL, PASTORALL, IN SONNETS, SONGS, SEXTAINS, MADRIGALS," from which the following extracts are taken. He travelled several years on the Continent, and made the acquaintance of many of the most learned men in France, Italy, and Germany; and returning to Scotland in 1631 or '32, he accidentally met a lady who bore a striking resemblance to his lost mistress, and married her. Her name was Elizabeth Logan, and she is said to have been a daughter of Sir Robert Logan, of Restelrig. Her pedigree has been disputed on the other side of the water, where they care for such trifles-one account making her "the daughter of a minister, by one whose sire was a shepherd;" but to us, at this late day, it is of no great consequence who she was.

In my first years, and prime yet not at height,
When sweet conceits my wits did entertain,
Ere beauty's force I knew, or false delight,
Or to what oar she did her captives chain,
Led by a sacred troop of Phoebus' train,
I first began to read, then loved to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white,
But, God wot, wist not what was in my brain:
Love smiled to see in what an awful guise
I turned those antiques of the age of gold,
And, that I might more mysteries behold,
He set so fair a volume to mine eyes,