JOHN HARRINGTON.

WHENCE COMES MY LOVE.

WHENCE Comes my love? O heart disclose!
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil'd the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock'd the diamond's blaze:
Whence came my woes? as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'Tis Cupid's fire;

Yet all so fair, bespeak 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 save 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.

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The above is "A Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her fair, as she stood at the Princess's window, in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the Court-yard," from a M. S. of JOHN HARRINGTON's, dated 1564, and inserted into the Nugæ Antiquæ. This John Harrington, Esq. says Ellis, was father to the above mentioned Sir John. In the reign of Queen Mary, he was imprisoned for having espoused the cause of Elizabeth, who rewarded his attention, by the reversion of a grant of lands at Kelston, near Bath. He was born in 1534, and died in 1582. His love verses, says Campbell, possess an elegance and terseness more modern by a hundred years, than others of his contemporaries.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet,

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of my

Ah! wanton, will ye!

rest:

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The live long night;

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays, if I but sing;
He lends me every lovely thing—
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah! wanton, will ye!

Else I, with roses every day,

Will whip you hence;

And bind ye when ye long to play,

For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin— Helas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me!

JOHN LYLY.

What if I beat the wanton boy,
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god!

Then sit thou softly on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me!
Spare not, but play thee.

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The above Ballad is by DR. THOMAS LODGE. His plays and poetry possess considerable merit. He was born in 1556, and died in 1625.

WHAT BIRD SO SINGS.

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
'Tis Philomel, the nightingale';

Jugg, jugg, jugg, jugg, terue, she cries,
And hailing earth, to heaven she flies.-Cuckoo!
Ha, ha, hark, hark, the cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring.

Brave prick song, who is't now we hear?
'Tis the lark's silver leer-a-leer;
Chirup, the sparrow, flies away,
For he fell to't ere break of day:
Ha, ha, hark, hark, the cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows,
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these, the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise:
O Love! has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me?

The two foregoing Sonnets are the composition of JOHN LYLY, a celebrated writer in the time of Queen Elizabeth, born about 1553, in the wilds of Kent. He was the author of nine plays, and several lyrics, published betwixt 1580 and 1632, which, along with the above, certainly merit preservation. The last of these, "Cupid and Campaspe," is to be found in his play of " Alexander and Campaspe," printed in 1591. The time of this author's death is uncertain, but Ellis fixes it about the year 1600.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

GOOD-morrow to the day so fair,

Good-morrow, Sir, to you;

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled all with dew.

HERRICK'S SONGS.

Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morning to each maid,

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah, woe is me, woe, woe is me,

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, Sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave
In the bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there, I know ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;

But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who so rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

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