The law, you see, would you condemn,

If I should plead my case;

But sure to work you such despite

I cannot have the face.

Yet Reason would, I should have 'mends;

For that in any wise

To have mine own restor❜d again

It will not me suffice.

You had my heart, when it was whole;
And sound I know you found it.
Would you then give it back again,
When you have all to wound it?

The old law biddeth tooth for tooth,
And eye for eye restore:

Give then your heart to me for mine,
And I will ask no more!

DIRGE.

SITTING late with sorrows sleeping, Where heart bled, and eyes were weeping,

a Harl. MSS. 6910, fol. 158.

I might see from high descending
Beauty mourning for Love's ending:
When with her hands woeful wringing,
She entomb'd him with this singing.

"Muses, now give over writing;
Poets all, leave off enditing;

Nymphs, come tear your tender hairs;

Shepherds all, come shed your tears;

Cupid's waxen but a warling;

Death hath wounded Honour's darling.

Cursed Death, and all too cruel,
Hast thou stolen mine only jewel?
Doth the heavenly Fates so spite me,
As on earth should nought delight me;
And of such a love bereave me,

As no love of Life should please me?

Go, my flock; go, leave your feeding;
And your life lies now a bleeding;
Whiles my Shepherd did attend you,
Wolf nor tiger might offend you.
But now he is dead and gone,

I shall lose you every one.a

b This is like Sydney's manner; perhaps it may be found among his Poems.

Sorrows, now come show your powers;

Earth, give over bringing flowers;

Never tree let bear more fruit;

Let all singing birds be mute;
And let no more of Love be spoken;

For the heart of Love is broken."

And with that, as in a cloud

She did all her shining shroud;

When sweet Phillis gave such groans,

As did pierce the very stones;

That all the earth with sorrow shaked;

And then poor Coridon awaked.a

THE SEA.

WHO life doth loath, and longs Death to behold,
Before he die, already dead with fear;

And yet would live with life half-stony cold,
Let him to sea, and he shall see it there!

And yet as ghastly dreadful as it seems,

Bold men, presuming life for gain to sell, Dare tempt that gulf, and in those winding streams Seek ways unknown, ways leading down to hell!b

a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 146.

b Ibid. f. 165.

DESPAIR.

AMONGST the groves, the woods, and thicks,
The bushes, brambles, and the briars,

The stubs, the shrubs, the thorns and pricks,
The ditches, plashes, lakes, and mires,
Where fish nor fowl, nor bird, nor beast,
Nor living thing may take delight;
Nor Reason's rage may look for rest,
Till heart be dead with hateful spite;

Within a cave of years unknown,
Whose hope of comfort all decays,

Let me with Sorrow sit alone,

In doleful thoughts to end my days;

And when I hear the storms arise,

That troubled ghosts do leave their grave,

With hellish sounds, and Horror's cries,
Let me go look out of my cave!

And when I feel what storms they bide,

Which do the greatest torments prove,

Then let me not my sorrow hide,

Which I do suffer for my love! a

a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 163.

b This was Francis Davison, the Editor of "The Rhapsody," a curious collection of Elizabethan Poems, which is reprinting at the Lee Priory Press. He was son of the unhappy Secretary, whose story is so well-known. There is a simple vigour and harmony in these versifications, which gives them intrinsic merit.

The sixth stanza of this psalm appears to me to convey a beautiful

image in the most simple and harmonious language.

It is not among the least attractions of these productions of Davison, that they exhibit such an happy variety of metre. Davison had a nice ear for the changes and modulations of lyric rhythm.