So deep reposèd in my breast is She for her desert.

For many blessed gifts, O happy, happy land!

Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand; Yet, land! more is thy bliss that in this cruel age

A Venus imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
Among the Muses nine a tenth if Jove would make,

And to the Graces three a fourth, Her would Apollo take.
Let some for honour hunt, or hoard the massy gold :
With Her so I may live and die, my weal can not be told.

JOHN HEYWOOD.
1505?-1570-80.

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY.

Give place, you Ladies! and begone;
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth One
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy :

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could

So fair a creature make.

She may

be very well compared

Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen or heard

That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,

In truth Penelopè;

In word and eke in deed steadfast:
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosiall colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More readier too than doth the rose,

Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mix'd with shamefacedness ;

All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair
And deck in her such honesty
Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly She doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days
As doth the gillyflower a weed,
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff

Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give :

When Death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

JOHN HARINGTON.
1520?-1565?

THE HEART OF STONE,

Whence comes my love? O heart! disclose!
'Twas from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the rubies' praise,
From eyes that mock the diamonds' blaze.
Whence comes my woe? As freely own,
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eyes do tempt to love's desire
And seem to say-'Tis Cupid's fire:
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,

Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus my love so kind bespeak

Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek; Yet not a heart to ease my pain?

O Venus! take thy gifts again :

Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own!

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

1535-7?-1577.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER.

At Beauty's Bar as I did stand,

When False Suspect accusèd me,

George! quoth the Judge,-hold up thy hand! Thou art arraign'd of flattery :

Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried!
Whose judgment here wilt thou abide?

My Lord! quoth I,-this Lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt if any were:

Wherefore her doom shall please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both
To try me, guiltless by mine oath!

Quoth Beauty-No! it fitteth not

A Prince herself to judge the cause :
Will is our Justice, well you wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws.
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so!
Then Craft, the crier, call'd a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,

Which came false witness for to bear : The jury such, the judge unjust, Sentence was said I should be truss'd.

Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast

To hear the verdict of the bill

George! quoth the Judge,-
,-now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to heavy hill

And there be hang'd all by the head :
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!

Down fell I then upon my knee,

All flat before Dame Beauty's face,
And cried-Good Lady! pardon me
Which here appeal unto your grace :
You know, if I appear untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this judge do make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,

Yet let your pity first be placed

To save the man that meant you good! So shall you show yourself a Queen, And I may be your servant seen.

Quoth Beauty-Well! because I guess What thou dost mean henceforth to be, Although thy faults deserve no less

Than Justice here hath judgèd thee,
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?

Yes, Madam! quoth I,—that I shall:
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties!
Why then, quoth She,-come when I call;
I ask no better warranties.

Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

BARNABE GOOGE.

1540 ?-1594.

TO THE TUNE OF APELLES.

The rushing rivers that do run,

The vallies sweet adornèd new

That lean their sides against the sun,
With flowers fresh of sundry hue,
Both ash and elm, and oak so high,
Do all lament my woeful cry.

While winter black with hideous storms

Doth spoil the ground of summer's green, While spring-time sweet the leaf returns That late on tree could not be seen, While summer burns, while harvest reigns, Still, still do rage my restless pains.

No end I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain,