-Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapped in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.

Sir Henry Wotton.

[BORN 1568. DIED 1639.]

OU 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,

*Chambers attributes this song to Lord Darnley, king consort of Mary, queen of Scots. There appears no doubt, after investigation, that it was written by Wotton, and was addressed to the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I.

Thinking your passion understood

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 designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

Sir Robert Aytoun.

[BORN 1570. DIED 1638.]

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

LOVED 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, unloved 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 remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine:
But thou thy freedom did recall,

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

A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee,

And changed the object of thy will; It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go

And prostitute affection so;

Since we are taught our prayers to say,
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,

To see him gain what I have lost :
The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee,
To love thee still, but go no more
A begging at a beggar's door.

DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips can speak had power to move thee;

But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.