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TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS | Charged with more crying sins than those he

OF CUMBERLAND.

HE that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and weilds of man survey!

And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil!
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood, where honor, power, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right; the ill-succeeding Mars
The fairest and the best-faced enterprise.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails;
Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still [ill.
Conspires with power, whose cause must not be

He sees the face of right to appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man;
Who puts it in all colors, all attires,
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires:
That the all-guiding providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit.
Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow
Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes;

checks.

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Which makes that whatsoever here befalls, You in the region of yourself remain, Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests, That hath secured within the brazen walls Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) Rises in peace, in innocency rests; Whilst all what malice from without procures, Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not

yours.

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge,
Than woman used to do; yet you well know,
That wrong is better checked by being con-
temned,

Than being pursued; leaving to him to avenge
To whom it appertains. Wherein you show
How worthily your clearness hath condemned
Base malediction, living in the dark,
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, about the which
These revolutions of disturbances
Still roll; where all the aspects of misery
Predominate; whose strong effects are such
As he must bear, being powerless to redress;
And that unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!

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This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind,
Hath been so set by that all-working hand

Of heaven, that though the world hath done his worst

To put it out by discords most unkind,
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand
With God and man; nor ever will be forced
From that most sweet accord, but still agree,
Equal in fortunes in equality.

And this note, madam, of your worthiness
Remains recorded in so many hearts,
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right,
In th' inheritance of fame you must possess ;
You that have built you by your great deserts
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite
And glorious dwelling for your honored name
Than all the gold that leaden minds can
frame.

LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind,
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

ODE.

Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another,

In the fall of silver showers;
Whilst the Earth, our common mother,

Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven

With bright ray warms Flora's lap, Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers, quite bereaven, Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills, Knows the name of my fierce fair,

And sounds the accents of my ills: Each thing pities my despair,

Whilst that she her lover kills. Whilst that she, O cruel maid! Doth me and my love despise, My life's flourish is decayed,

That depended on her eyes; But her will must be obeyed,

And well he ends for love who dies.

SONNET.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read

Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have a time before they come to seed,

And she is young, and now must sport the while, And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.

Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,

And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair;

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

MICHAEL DRAYTON was born in Warwickshire, quarians. Among his other works are "Harmoin 1563, the year before Shakespeare saw the ny of the Church," a collection of hymns; "Paslight in the same county. Very little is known torals," ," "The Barons' Wars," "England's Heroof his life, except that in 1626 he was poet laure- ical Epistles," "The Legend of Great Cromwell," ate. Nor is it known in what order his poems "The Muses' Elysium," "Nymphidia, the Court were published. The most important and best of Fairy," and "The Ballad of Agincourt." He known is the "Polyolbion," in thirty books, de- died in 1631, and was buried in Westminster scribing England, her legends, antiquities, and Abbey, where a monument was erected to his productions. It is full of fine passages, and is memory. An edition of his works was published so accurate as to be quoted as authority by anti-in London in 1752-'53, in four volumes 8vo.

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With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy:
Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brotherClarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay

To England to carry; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

SONNETS.

SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part!
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so clearly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again

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LOVE in a humor played the prodigal,
And bade my senses to a solemn feast;
Yet more to grace the company withal,
Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest:
No other drink would serve this glutton's turn
But precious tears distilling from mine eyne,
Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn,
Quaffing carouses in this costly wine;
Where, in his cups o'ercome with foul excess,
Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's
part,

And at the banquet in his drunkenness,
Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart:
A gentle warning (friends) thus may you see,
What 't is to keep a drunkard company.

IF he, from heaven that filched that living fire,
Condemned by Jove to endless torment be,

I greatly marvel how you still go free,
That far beyond Prometheus did aspire:
The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind,
Which from above he craftily did take,
Of lifeless clods, us living men to make,
He did bestow in temper of the mind:
But you broke into heaven's immortal store,
Where virtue, honor, wit, and beauty lay;
Which taking thence you have escaped away,
Yet stand as free as e'er you did before:

Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape: Thus poor thieves suffer, when the greater 'scape.

Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn,

Wand'ring obroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,
Yet craved the alms of such as passed by:
I like a man devout and charitable,

Clothed the naked, lodged this wand'ring guest.
With sighs and tears still furnishing his table
With what might make the miserable blest;
But this ungrateful, for my good desert,
Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast his lodging on a fire.

Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus

bold,

No marvel then though charity grow cold.

CVTTLOBHIV

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