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STANZAS BY ROBERT DEVEREUX,

SECOND EARL OF ESSEX.

MUSES no more, but Mazes be your names,

Where Discord's sound shall mar your concords sweet!

Unkindly now your careful Fancy frames,

When Fortune treads your favour under feet:

But foul befall that cursed cuckoo's throat,

That so hath cross'd sweet Philomela's note.

And all unhappy hatched was that bird,

That parrot-like can never cease to prate;
But most untimely spoken was that word,
That brought the world in such a woeful state;
That Love and Liking quite are overthrown,
And in their place are Hate and Sorrows grown.

Is this the honour of an haughty thought,

For Lover's hap to have all spite or love?
Hath wretched skill thus blinded Reason taught
In this conceit such discontent to move,
That Beauty so is of herself bereft,

That no good hope of ought good hap is left?

O let no Phoenix look upon a crow,

Nor dainty hills bow down to dirty vales!

Let never heaven an hellish humour know,
Nor firm Affect give ear to hellish tales!
For this in fine will fall to be the troth,

That puddle water makes unwholesome broth.

Woe to the world! The sun is in a cloud,
And darksome mists doth overrun the day;
In hope Conceit is not content allow'd;
Favour must die, and Fancy wear away.

O heavens, what hell! The bands of Love are broken;
Nor must a thought of such a thing be spoken!

Mars must become a coward in his mind,

Whilst Vulcan stands to prate of Venus' toys;
Beauty must seem to go against her kind,

In crossing Nature in her sweetest joys.
But, oh! no more! It is too much to think,
So

pure a mouth should puddle water drink!

But since the world is as thy woeful pass,

Let Love's submission Honour's wrath appease!
Let not an horse be matched with an ass;

Nor hateful tongue a happy heart disease!
So shall the world commend a sweet conceit,
And humble Faith on heavenly Honour wait!"

a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 151.

POEM.a

By Thomas Campion. *

THOU shalt not love me; neither shall those eyes
Shine on my soul shrowded in deadly night;
Thou shalt not breath on me thy spiceries,
Nor rock me in thy quavers of delight!

Hold off thy hands! for I had rather die,

Than have my life by thy coy touch reviv'd! Smile not on me, but frown thou bitterly;

Slay me outright; no lovers are long-liv'd! As for those lips reserv'd so much in store,

Their rosy verdure shall not meet with mine; Withhold thy proud embracements evermore; I'll not be swaddled in those arms of thine! Now shew it, if thou be a woman right; Embrace and kiss; and love me in despite.

1596.

Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 150. This MS. appears to have the date of

* Thomas Campion was author of "The Art of English Poesie, London, 1602." 12mo. "Relation of the Entertainment made by the the Lord Knowles for Queen Anne at Cawsame House, London, 1613.” 4to. "Masque at Whitehall, London, 1613." 4to. "Masque at the Marriage of the Earl of Somerset and Lady Frances Howard, London, 1614." 4to. &c.

ANOTHER.

By the same.

THRICE toss those oaken askes in the air;

And thrice three times tie up this true-love's-knot;

Thice sit you down in this enchanted chair;

And murmur soft, "she will, or she will not." Go, burn those poison'd weeds in that blue fire; This cypress gather'd out a dead man's grave; These screech-owls feathers, and the prickly brier, That all thy thorny cares an end may have! Then come, you Fairies, dance with me around; Dance in a circle; let my love be centre; Melodiously breathe an enchanted sound;

Melt her hard heart, that some remorse may enter!

In vain are all the charms I can devise;

She hath an heart to break them with her eyes.

BEAUTY WITHOUT Love, defORMITY.

By the same.

THOU art not fair, for all thy red and white,

For all those rosy temperatures in thee;

Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight;
Nor fair nor sweet unless thou pity me!

Thine eyes are black, and yet their glittering brightness

Can night enlumine in her darkest den;

Thy hands and bloody thoughts contriv'd of whiteness,
Both black and bloody, if they murder men;
Thy brows whereon my good hap doth depend,
Fairer than snow, or lilly in the spring,

Thy tongue which saves at every sweet word's end,
That hard as marble, this a mortal sting.

I will not soothe thy follies: thou shalt prove
That Beauty is no Beauty without Love.

ANONYMOUS.a

LIKE Hermit poor, in pensive place obscure,

I mean to spend my days of endless doubt;

To wail such woes as time cannot recure,

Where nought but Love shall ever find me out.

My food shall be of care and sorrow made,

My drink nought else but tears fall'n from mine eyes;

And for my light in such obscured shade,

The flames may serve that from my heart arise.

a Harl. MSS. 6910.

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