Love is the principal theme of the reflective lyrics. It is treated in all its various moods and fancies. Jealousy, unfaithfulness, indifference, despair; hope, desire, faithfulness and passion, are all pictured. The Elizabethan lyrics are ablaze with gorgeous coloring, while the Victorian lyrics are shaded by soft shadows. Love to the Elizabethan was rapture, and unfaithfulness incited a spirit of revenge quickly satiated. To the Victorian love

was sacred, and once injured to him the wound was deep and cureless. This difference is brought out very well in two poens which I quote below:

AN ODE

By Thomas Lodge

Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles. Phillis, page 71.

"Now I find thy looks were feigned,
Quickly lost, and quickly gained;
Soft thy skin like wool of wethers,
Heart unstable, light as feathers,
Tongue untrusty, subtile-sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted,
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Of thine eyes, I made my mirror,
From thy beauty came mine error,
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deemed pity,

Thy false tears that me aggrieved,
First of all my trust deceived.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feigned acceptance when I asked,
Lovely words with cunning masked,
Holy vows but heart unholy;
Wretched man, my trust was folly!
Lily white and pretty winking,
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel,

Others warm them at my fuel!

Wit shall guide me in this durance,
Since in love is no assurance.

Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure;
Beauty is a fading treasure.

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Prime youth lusts not age still follow,
And make white these tresses yellow;
Wrinkled face for looks delightful
Shall acquaint the dane despightful;
And when time shall eat thy glory,
Then too late thou wilt be sorry.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason."

TO IMPERIA

By Thomas Burbidge

Vic. An. page 70

"Thou art not, and thou never canst be mine; The die of fate for me is thrown,

And thou art made

No more to me than some resplendent shade
Flung on the canvas by old art divine;

Or vision of shap'd stone;

Or the far glory of some starry sign
Which hath a beauty unapproachable
To aught but sight, - a throne

High in the heavens and out of reach;

Therefore with this low speech

I bid thee now a long and last farewell

Ere I depart, in busy crowds to dwell,

Yet be alone.

All pleasures of this pleasant Earth be thine!
Yea, let her servants fondly press

Unto thy feet,

Bearing all sights most fair, all scents most sweet:
Spring, playing with her wreath of budded vine;

Summer, with stately tress

Prink'd with great wheat-ears and the white corn-bine;
And Autumn crown'd from the yellow forest-tree;

- And Winter, in his dress

Begeman'd with icicles, from snow dead-white

Shooting their wondrous light;

These be thine ever. But I ask of thee
One blessing only to beseech for me,-
Forgetfulness."

See also: "Remember or Forget," by Aide, Vic. An., p. 328,

"The Forsaken, "

Id.,

p. 329,

"A Love Trilogy," by Mathilde Blinde, "

p. 522,

"Love in Exile,"

Id.,

p. 522.

Note the general tone of the stanzas on "Love is Dead. "

A DIRGE: LOVE IS DEAD

By Sir Philip Sidney

Schelling, I age 15

"Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread; For Love is dead:

All love is dead, infected

With plague of deep disdain,

Worth as nought worth, rejected,

And Faith fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
Good Lord, deliver us!