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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,
Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought,

Thy solid judgment and thy generous thought,
Which in this darkened age have clearly shined:
I swear by those, and by my spotless love,
And by my secret, yet most fervent fires,
That I have never nursed but chaste desires,
And such as modesty might well approve.
Then since I love those virtuous parts in thee,
Should'st thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

If that so many brave men leaving Greece,
Durst erst adventure through the raging deep,
And all to get the spoils of one poor sheep,
That had been famous for his golden fleece;
O then for that pure gold what should be sought,
Of which each hair is worth a thousand such!

No doubt for it one cannot do too much;
Why should not precious things be dearly bought?
And so they are, for in the Colchic guise,
This treasure many a danger doth defend:
Of which, when I have brought some one to end,
Straight out of that a number doth arise:
Even as the dragon's teeth bred men at arms,
Which, ah, t' o'erthrow I want Medea's charms.

Now when the Siren sings, as one dismayed,
I straight with wax begin to stop mine ears;
And when the crocodile doth shed forth tears,
I fly away, for fear to be betrayed.

I know when as thou seem'st to wail my state,

Thy face is no true table of thy mind;
And thou would'st never show thyself so kind,
Wer't not thy thoughts are hatching some deceit :
Whilst with vain hopes thou go'st about to fill me,

I wot whereto those drams of favour tend;
Lest by my death thy cruelties should end,
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,
Your woes are mine, I suffer in your wounds,
Your passions all they sympathise in me:"
Thus whilst for kindness both began to weep,
My happiness evanished with the sleep.

Ah, thou (my love) wilt lose thyself at last,
Who can to match thyself with none agree:
Thou ow'st thy father nephews, and to me
A recompense for all my passions past.

Ah, why should'st thou thy beauty's treasure waste,
Which will begin for to decay I see?

Erst Daphne did become a barren tree,

Because she was not half so wise as chaste:

And all the fairest things do soonest fade,
Which O, I fear, thou'lt with repentance try:

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,
Which by experience doth not folly prove;
But amongst all the follies that I know,

The sweetest folly in the world is love:
But not that passion which, with fools' consent,
Above the reason bears imperious sway,
Making their life-time a perpetual Lent,

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, That I revived within an hour or two. Thus have I lived, thus have I loved, till now, And find no reason to repent me yet;

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,

Thine be the grief, as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast 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 had still continued mine;
Yea, if thou had remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recal,
That if thou might elsewhere enthral;

And then how could I but disdain

A captive's captive to remain?

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