As Bacchus opes diffembled harts,
So Love fets out our better parts.

Stella, a Nymph within this wood,
Moft rare and rich of heavenly blis,
The higheft in his fancie ftood,
And she could well demerite this;
Tis likely they acquainted foone;
He was a Sun, and fhe a Moone.

Our Aftrophill did Stella love;
O Stella, vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may move,
Where wilt thou finde an Aftrophill!

The rofe and lillie have their prime,
And fo hath beautie but a time.

Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common fight of ev'ry eie,
Yet in his Poefies when we reede,

It is apparant more thereby,

He, that hath love and iudgement too,
Sees more than any other doo.

Then Aftrophill hath honord thee;
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces fhall eternall be,

And live by virtue of his inke;
For by his verses he doth give
The fhort-livde beautie aye to I've.

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Above all others this is hee,
Which erft approoved in his fong,
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet faints! it is no finne or blame,
To love a man of vertuous name.

Did never love so sweetly breath
In any mortall breft before,
Did never Mufe infpire beneath
A Poets braine with finer ftore:

He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beautie reard above her height.

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With privie force burst out againe,
And fo our Aftrophill was flaine.

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His word (was flaine !) ftraightway did move And natures inward life ftrings twitch;

The skie immediately above

Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,

The wraftling winds from out the ground 183 Fild all the aire with ratling found.

The bending trees expreft a grone,

And figh'd the forrow of his fall,
The forreft beafts made ruthfull mone,

The birds did tune their mourning call,
And Philomell for Aftrophill
Unto her notes annext a phill.

The turtle dove with tunes of ruthe
Shewd feeling paffion of his death,
Me thought she said I tell thee truthe,
Was never he that drew in breath,

Unto his love more truftie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound.

The fwan, that was in prefence heere,

Began his funerall dirge to fing,

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Good things (quoth he) may fcarce appeere,

But paffe away with speedie wing.
This mortall life as death is tride,
And death gives life, and fo he di'de.

The generall forrow that was made,
Among the creatures of [each] kinde,

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Fired the Phoenix where fhe laide,
Her afhes flying with the winde,
So as I might with reason fee,

That fuch a Phoenix nere should bee.

Haply the cinders, driven about,

May breede an offspring neere that kinde,
But hardly a peere to that I doubt,
It cannot finke into my minde,

That under branches ere can bee,
Of worth and value as the tree.

The Egle markt with pearcing fight
The mournfull habite of the place,

And parted thence with mounting flight,
To fignifie to love the case,

What forrow nature doth fuftaine,

For Aftrophill by envie slaine.

And, while I followed with mine eie

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The flight the Egle upward tooke,

All things did vanish by and by,

And disappeared from my looke;

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The trees, beafts, birds, and grove was gone, So was the friend that made this mone.

This fpectacle had firmly wrought,
A deepe compaffion in my fpright,
My molting hart iffude, me thought,
In ftreames forth at mine eies aright:
And here my pen is forft to fhrinke,
My teares difcollor fo mine inke.

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AN EPITAPH,

Upon the Right Honourable SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY Knight: Lord Governor of Flushing.

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obfcurde in fecret breft,
And love that envie in thy life fuppreft,

Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,

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As one that feeld the rifing fun hath fought,
With words and teares now waile thy timeleffe fate.

Drawne was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor leffe than fuch, (by gifts that nature gave,
The common mother that all creatures have,)
Doth vertue fhew, and princely linage shine.

A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, That God thee gave, who found it now too deere For this bafe world, and hath refumde it neere, To fit in fkies, and fort with powres divine.