WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING. 1580-1640. sonnets. AURORA. THE Aurora of the Earl of Stirling was a reality and not a myth, his biographers tell us, though they have not succeeded in discovering her name. He is said to have fallen in love with her in his fifteenth year, and to have kept her image fresh in his heart during a long tour on the Continent with the Earl of Argyle, whom he accompanied as tutor, or companion. On his return to Scotland he devoted himself to solitude and "He now pressed his suit"-(I quote from his biography in the "LIVES OF SCOTTISH POETS")" with all the ardour of manhood, and enthusiasm of poetry; but though he actually penned upwards of a hundred songs and sonnets in her praise, the fair enslaver was not to be moved. The object of Alexander's passion," the biographer continues, after quoting one of his songs, "at last gave her hand to another; and as the poet himself poetically tells us, 'the lady, so unrelenting to him, matched her morning to one in the evening of his age.' Alexander sustained his disappointment with great philosophy; he neither drowned himself, nor burnt his sonnets; but, reserving the latter for future use, became again a wooer. In his next attachment he was more fortunate, and after a brief courtship, obtained in marriage the hand of Janet, the daughter and heiress of Sir William Erskine." Stirling's sonnets were first published in 1604. I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, And by those golden locks whose lock none slips, And by the coral of thy rosy lips, And by the naked snows which beauty dyes; I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, Thy solid judgment and thy generous thought, If that so many brave men leaving Greece, No doubt for it one cannot do too much; Why should not precious things be dearly bought? Now when the Siren sings, as one dismayed, I know when as thou seem'st to wail my state, Thou think'st by giving life again to kill me: No, no, thou shalt not thus thy greatness raise, I'll break the trumpet that proclaimed thy praise. I dreamed, the nymph that o'er my fancy reigns, Came to a part whereas I paused alone, Then said, "What needs you in such sort to moan? Have I not power to recompense your pains? Lo! I conjure you by that loyal love Which you profess, to cast those griefs apart; It's long, dear love, since that you had my heart, Yet I was coy your constancy to prove, But having had a proof, I'll now be free: I am the echo that your sighs resounds, Ah, thou (my love) wilt lose thyself at last, Ah, why should'st thou thy beauty's treasure waste, Erst Daphne did become a barren tree, Because she was not half so wise as chaste: And all the fairest things do soonest fade, The roses blasted are, the lilies die, And all do languish in the summer's shade: Yet will I grieve to see those flowers fall down, Which for my temples should have framed a crown. SIR ROBERT AYTON. 1570-1638. ON LOVE. THERE is no worldly pleasure here below, The sweetest folly in the world is love: As if a man were born to fast and pray. No, that is not the humour I approve, As either yielding pleasure, or promotion; I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, Although I do not like it in devotion: For it has no coherence with my creed, To think that lovers die, as they pretend: If all that say they die, had died indeed, Sure long ere now the world had had an end. Besides, we need not love but if we please, No destiny can force men's disposition; And how can any die of that disease, Whereof himself may be his own physician? But some seem so distracted of their wit, That I would think it but a venial sin To take some of those innocents that sit In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in. Yet some men, rather than incur the slander Of true apostates, will false martyrs prove: But I am neither Iphis, nor Leander, I'll neither drown, nor hang myself for love. Methinks a wise man's actions should be such As always yields to reason's best advice; Now for to love too little, or too much, Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice. Yet have I been a lover by report, Yea, I have died for love, as others do; But, praised be God, it was in such a sort, And whosoever otherways will do, His courage is as little as his wit. ON A WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I loved thee once, I'll love no more, He that can love, unloved again, God send me love my debts to pay, Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, And then how could I but disdain |