Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When winter snows upon thy sable hairs.

Read in my face a volume of despairs,

The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;

Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares, Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so. Who, whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, Looking aloft from turret of her pride;

There my soul's tyrant joys her, in the sack
Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide.
There do these smokes that from affliction rise,
Serve as an incense to a cruel dame;

A sacrifice thrice grateful to her eyes,
Because their power serves to exact the same.
Thus ruins she, (to satisfy her will,)

The temple where her name was honoured still.

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,

Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew; And straight 'tis gone, as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish; Short is the glory of the blushing rose:

The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burden of thy years,

Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth ; And that in beauty's lease expired, appears The date of age, the calends of our death. But ah, no more, this must not be foretold; For women grieve to think they must be old.

I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;

Flowers have time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,

And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,

And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

And whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go,

To go from sorrow, and thine own distress? When every place presents like face of woe, And no remove can make thy sorrows less? Yet go, forsaken; leave these woods, these plains; Leave her and all, and all for her, that leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains; And of both wrongful deems, and ill conceives. Seek out some place; and see if any place

Can give the least release unto thy grief: Convey thee from the thoughts of thy disgrace; Steal from thyself, and be thy cares' own thief. But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

1563-1631.

NOTHING is known of the lady who inspired the love-sonnets of Drayton, except that she resided on the banks of the Ankor. As Drayton himself was born near that river (in the village of Harshull, or Hartshill, in the parish of Atherston), it is probable that he met her there in his youth. She was born on the 4th of August, in Coventry, if his "HYMN TO HIS LADY'S BIRTH PLACE," may be taken as evidence, and resided at one time in Mich-Parke, a noted street of that town. He celebrated her under the singular name of Idea. His sonnets were first published in 1593. The Hymn was written some ten or twelve years later, certainly after the death of Queen Elizabeth, in 1603.

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom sweet, delicious Love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear:
Since he that blesséd paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there:
Let others strive to entertain with words,
My soul is of a braver metal made,

I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which time can not invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you:
Be you most worthy whilst I am most true.

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round,
Of the birds' kind, the phenix is alone,

Which best by you, of living things, is known;
None like to that, none like to you is found.
Your beauty is the hot and splendorous Sun,
The precious spices be your chaste desire,
Which being kindled by that heavenly fire,
Your life so like the phenix's begun ;
Yourself thus burnéd in that sacred flame,
With so rare sweetness all the heavens perfuming,
Again increasing, as you are consuming,

Only by dying, born the very same;

And winged by fame, you to the stars ascend,
So you of time shall live beyond the end.

I hear some say, "This man is not in love: Who? Can he love? A likely thing," they say; "Read but his verse, and it will easily prove." O, judge not rashly (gentle sir) I pray, Because I loosely trifle in this sort,

As one that fain his sorrows would beguile:
You now suppose me all this time in sport,
And please yourself with this conceit the while.

Ye shallow censors, sometimes see ye not,
In greatest perils some men pleasant be,

Where fame by death is only to be got,
They resolute? So stands the case with me;
Where other men in depth of passion cry,
I laugh at fortune, as in jest to die.

Dear, why should you command me to my rest, When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best;

Night was ordained together friends to keep:

How happy are all other living things,

Which through the day disjoin by several flight,

The quiet evening yet together brings,

And each returns unto his love at night!

O, thou that art so courteous else to all!

Why should'st thou, Night, abuse me only thus ?
That every creature to his kind dost call,

And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?

Well could I wish it would be ever day,

If when night comes, you bid me go away.

Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace
Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darkness, in the self-same place,
Get not one glance to recompence my merit?
So doth the ploughman gaze the wandering star,
And only rest contented with the light,
That never learned what constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight.
O, why should beauty (custom to obey)
To their gross sense apply herself so ill!
Would God I were as ignorant as they,
When I am made unhappy by my skill;

Only compelled on this poor good to boast,

Heavens are not kind to them that know them most.

Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore,

My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lies,

O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore

Thy crystal stream refinéd by her eyes,

Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring
Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers,

Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing,
Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers;

Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen,
Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wandering years,
And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been,
And here to thee he sacrificed his tears:

Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,
And thou, sweet Ankor, art my Helicon.