And evermore they "Hymen, Hymen" sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

Lo, where she comes along with portly1 pace,
Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the east,
Arising forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been;

Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,
Do like a golden mantle her attire,

And being crownéd with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes abashéd to behold So many gazers as on her do stare,

Upon the lowly ground affixéd are:

Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, .

So far from being proud.

Nathless do ye still ioud her praises sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

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To humble your proud faces.

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make:
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throats,
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks
And blesses her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain :

That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget their service and about her fly,

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Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governéd with goodly modesty

That suffers not one look to glance awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band?

Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluya sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Now all is done; bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory,
Bring home with you the glory of her gain,
With joyance bring her, and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this,

Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,

There dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity,
Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood,
Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty;
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne,

And giveth laws alone,

Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast therefore now all this live-long day, This day for ever to me holy is;

Pour not by cups but by the bellyful.

Pour out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine, That they may sweat and drunken be withal. Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal,

And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine; And let the Graces dance unto the rest,

For they can do it best:

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The whiles the maidens do their carol sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

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Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing,
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

1 Portly, of good carriage. The use of the word has now slipped down into association chiefly with the movements of a big person. "Buxom," bow-some, which meant one who was pliable of manners, one who could yield with easy courtesy, has suffered a like change.

2 Phœbe, a name of Diana, sister of Phoebus; the Moon, sister of the Sun. The word means "the pure shining one."

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,
And leave your wonted labours for this day.
This day is holy; do you write it down,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sun is in his chiefest height,
With Barnaby the bright; 3

Barnaby the bright. Barnabas, called an apostle by St. Luke and

In time small wedge will cleaue the sturdiest oake; In time the marble weares with weakest shewres:

More fierce is my sweete loue, more hard withall, Then beast, or birde, then tree, or stony wall. No yoake preuailes, shee will not yeeld to might; No lure will cause her stoope, she beares full gorge; No wedge of woes make printe, she reakes no right; No shewre of tears can moue, she thinkes I forge:

Helpe therefore Heau'nly Boy, come perce her brest With that same shaft, which robbes me of my rest. So let her feele thy force, that she relent;

So keepe her lowe, that she vouchsafe a pray;

So frame her will to right, that pride be spent ;

So forge, that I may speede without delay;

Which if thou do, I'le sweare, and singe with ioy, That Loue no longer is a blinded boy.

LXXIX.

The Au ́t hour in this Passion seemeth vppon mislike of his weari some estate in loue to enter into a deepe discourse with him selfe touching the particular miseries which befall him that loueth. And for his sense in this place, hee is very like vnto him selfe, where in a Theame diducted out of the bowelles of Antigone in Sophocles (which he lately translated into Latine, and published in print) he writeth in very like manner as followeth,

Mali quando Cupidinis

Venas astus edax occupat intimas,
Artes ingenium labitur in malas;

Iactatur variè, nec Cereris subit

Nec Bacchi udium; peruigiles trahit

Noctes; cura animum sollicita atterit, etc.

And it may appeare by the tenour of this Passion that the Authour prepareth him selfe to fall from Loue and all his lawes as will well appeare by the sequell of his other Passions that followe, which are all made vpon this Posie, My Loue is past.

Where heate of loue doth once possesse the heart,
There cares oppresse the minde with wondrous ill,
Wit runns awrye not fearing future smarte,
And fond desire doth ouermaster will:

The belly neither cares for meate nor drinke,
Nor ouerwatched eyes desire to winke:
Footesteps are false, and waur'ing too and froe;
The brightsome flow'r of beauty fades away:
Reason retyres, and pleasure brings in woe:

And wisedome yeldeth place to black decay:

Counsell, and fame, and friendship are contem'nd:

And bashfull shame, and Gods them selues condem'nd.
Watchfull suspect is linked with despaire:
Inconstant hope is often drown'd in feares :
What folly hurtes not fortune can repayre;
And misery doth swimme in seas of teares:
Long vse of life is but a lingring foe,
And gentle death is only end of woe.

LXXXIX.

The two first staffes of this Sonnet are altogether sententiall, and euerie one verse of them is grownded vpon a diuerse reason and authoritie from the rest. I haue thought good for breuitie sake, onelie to set downe here the authorities, with figures, whereby to applie euerie one of them to his due lyne in order as they stand. 1. Hieronimus: In delicijs difficile est seruare castitatem. 2. Ausonius: dispulit inconsultus amor, etc. 3. Seneca: Amor est ociosa causa sollicitudinis. 4. Propertius: Errat, qui finem resani quærit amoris. 5. Horatius: Semper ardentes acuens sagittas. 6. Xenophon scribit amorem esse igne, et flamma flagrantiorem, quòd ignis vrat tangentes, et proxima tantum cremet, amor ex longinquo spectante torreat, 7. Calenti: Plurima Zelotipo sunt in amore mala, Ouidius: Inferet arma tibi saua rebellis amor. 9. Pontanus: Si vacuum sineret perfidiosus amor. 10. Marullus: Quid tantum lachri

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mis mis proterue Jnsultas puer? 11. Tibullus: At lascivis amor rixæ mala verba ministrat. 12. Virgilius: Bellum sarpe petit ferus exitiale Cupido.

Loue hath delight in sweete delicious fare;
Loue neuer takes good counsell for his frende;
Loue author is, and cause of ydle care;
Loue is distraught of witte, and hath no end;
Loue shoteth shaftes of burning hote desire;
Loue burneth more then eyther flame or fire;
Loue doth much harme through Jealosies assault;
Loue once embrast will hardly part againe;
Loue thinkes in breach of faith there is no fault;
Loue makes a sporte of others deadly paine;

Loue is a wanton childe, and loues to brall.
Loue with his warre bringes many soules to thrall. 1
These are the smallest faultes that lurke in Loue,
These are the hurtes which I haue cause to curse,
These are those truethes which no man can disprove,
These are such harmes as none can suffer worse.
All this I write, that others may beware,
Though now my selfe twise free from all such care.

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Henry Constable, of about Watson's age, was another writer of Elizabethan sonnets. He was of a good Roman Catholic family, studied in Cambridge at St. John's College, and graduated in 1579. In later days his religious opinions brought him into difficulty, and in 1595 he went abroad. Towards the end of Elizabeth's reign he ventured back to England, and was imprisoned in the Tower, not to be released till after the accession of King James. He was esteemed by the foremost poets of his time. Ben Jonson wrote of "Constable's ambrosiac muse "13 with reference to the series of sonnets published in 1592 under the title of "Diana." It will be observed that while Spenser's sonnets are fourteen-lined poems consisting of three quatrains and a couplet, and Watson's are poems of three six-lined stanzas, Constable's are true sonnets in their construction. In some of them he even avoids the pairing of rhyme in the last two lines. These sonnets are some of Henry Constable's :

THE BEGGAR AT THE DOOR.

Pity refusing my poor Love to feed,

A Beggar starv'd for want of help he lies,

And at your mouth, the Door of Beauty, cries, That thence some alms of sweet grants may proceed.

But as he waiteth for some almés-deed

A cherry-tree before the door he spies: "Oh dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice, Two only life may save in this my need." "But beggars can they nought but cherries eat?" "Pardon my Love, he is a goddess' son, And never feedeth but on dainty meat,

Else need he not to pine as he hath done: For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree Can give food to my Love, and life to me."

TO HIS LADY'S HAND.

Sweet Hand! the sweet yet cruel bow thou art
From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;
So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,
Bearing in breast the print of every dart.
Saint Francis had the like-yet felt no smart,
Where I in living torments never die;

His wounds were in his hands and feet, where I All these same helpless wounds feel in my heart. Now as Saint Francis (if a saint) am I:

The bow that shot these shafts a relique is,
I mean the Hand-which is the reason why
So many for devotion thee would kiss:
And I thy glove kiss as a thing divine-
Thy arrows' quiver, and thy reliques' shrine.

OF THE EXCELLENCY OF HIS LADY'S VOICE.

Lady of ladies, the delight alone

For which to heaven earth doth no envy bear; Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hear Such voice, such light, as never sung nor shone. The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan, Not for the pleasure of the angels there, As though in face or voice they like thee were, But that they many be, and thou but one. The basest notes which from thy voice proceed The treble of the angels do exceed.

So that I fear, their quire to beautify, Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine: Lo! when I hear thee sing, the reason why Sighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine.

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The following sonnet is one of three inscribed by Henry Constable

TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S SOUL.

Great Alexander then did well declare,

How great was his united kingdom's might, When ev'ry captain of his army might After his death with mighty kings compare. So now we see after thy death, how far

Thou dost in worth surpass each other knight, When we admire him as no mortal wight In whom the least of all thy virtues are. One did of Macedon the king become, Another sate in the Egyptian throne;

But only Alexander's self had all.

So courteous some, and some be liberal, Some witty, wise, valiant, and learned some, But king of all the virtues thou alone!

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am

The last illustration of Henry Constable's " brosiac muse" shall be a piece that first appeared in one of the poetical Miscellanies of Elizabeth's reign, "England's Helicon."

THE SHEPHERD'S SONG OF VENUS AND ADONIS.

Venus fair did ride,

Silver doves they drew her,

By the pleasant lawns

Ere the sun did rise:

Vesta's beauty rich

Opened wide to view her,

Philomel records

Pleasing harmonies.

Ready bound for hunting; Him she kindly greets,

And his journey stays; Him she seeks to kiss,

No devices wanting; Him her eyes still woo;

Him her tongue still prays.

He with blushing red
Hangeth down the head,

Not a kiss can he afford;
His face is turned away,
Silence said her nay,

Still she woo'd him for a word. "Speak," she said, "thou fairest; Beauty thou impairest,

See me, I am pale and wan: Lovers all adore me,

I for love implore thee;"

Crystal tears with that down ran.

Him herewith she forced

To come sit down by her,
She his neck embrac'd,
Gazing in his face :
He, like one transformed,
Stirr'd no look to eye her;
Every herb did woo him,
Growing in that place,
Each bird with a ditty
Prayed him for pity

In behalf of Beauty's Queen :

Water's gentle murmur
Cravéd him to love her:

Yet no liking could be seen.

"Boy," she said, “look on me,

Still I gaze upon thee,

Speak, I pray thee, my delight: " Coldly he replied,

And in brief deniéd

To bestow on her a sight.

"I am now too young To be won by beauty, Tender are my years, I am yet a bud." "Fair thou art," she said; "Then it is thy duty, Wert thou but a blossom,

To effect my good.

Every beauteous flower

Boasteth in my power,

Birds and beasts my laws effect;

Myrrha, thy fair mother,

From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordained was,
To chuse the longest day in all the year,
And shortest night, when longest fitter were;
Yet never day so long but late would pass.
Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away,

And bonfires make all day,

And dance about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lend me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the hours their numbers spend !
How slowly doth sad Time his feathers move!
Haste thee, O fairest planet, to thy home,
Within the western foam;

Thy tiréd steeds long since have need of rest.
Long tho' it be, at last I see it gloom,

And the bright evening star, with golden crest, Appear out of the east.

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Let no lamenting cries, nor doleful tears,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without;
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,
Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt.
Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights,
Make sudden, sad affrights;

Ne let house-fires, nor lightnings' helpless harms,
Ne let the puck, nor other evil sprights,
Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,
Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not;

Let not the screech-owl nor the stork be heard,
Nor the night-raven that still deadly yells,
Nor damnéd ghosts, call'd up with mighty spells,
Nor grisly vultures make us once affeard:
Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croaking
Make us to wish their choking.

Let none of these their dreary accents sing,
Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

But let still Silence true night-watches keep,
That sacred Peace may in assurance reign,
And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep,
May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain;
The whiles an hundred little wingéd loves,
Like divers-feathered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed;
And in the secret dark, that none reproves,

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Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread, To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Conceal'd through covert night.

Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will;
For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,
Than what ye do, all be it good or ill.

All night therefore attend your merry play,

For it will soon be day:

Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peeps?
Or whose is that fair face which shines so bright?
Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,

But walks about high heaven all the night?

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The puck. This word is misprinted "ponke" in the original, for 'pouke," or "Puck." The word also was written "Pug," and that was therefore the name given to the imp in Ben Jonson's "The Devil is an Ass." One of "Three Notelets on Shakespeare," by Mr. William J. Thoms-for whose many services to good literature. as founder of "Notes and Queries," and otherwise, all students are grateful-is in the "Folk Lore of Shakespeare," including a section "of Puck's several names.' The word "Pouk" is first found in Piers Plowman, where it signifies the devil. "Paccan meant in First English to deceive by false appearances. "In the cognate Nether Saxon," wrote Sir Francis Palgrave (quoted by Mr. Thoms). the verb Picken' signifies to gambol; and when inflected into 'Pickeln and Paeckeln,' to play the fool. From the Anglo-Saxon (First English) root we have Pack' or 'Patch,' the fool; whilst from 'Pickeln' and 'Paeckeln' are derived 'Pickle,' a mischievous boy. 'Pueke' and 'Puck' are the sportive devils of the Goths and Teutons."

A favourite writer of love sonnets in Elizabeth's reign was Thomas Watson, a Londoner, born about 1557, who, as a student at Oxford, became noted for his skill in song, and seems in later life to have been drawn away from common law by love of literature. Before 1581 he was in Paris, and he had for a friend Philip Sidney's father-in-law, Sir Thomas Walsingham, upon whose death, in 1590, he wrote an Eclogue. He published both Latin and English verse, and died in 1592. In the same year appeared soon afterwards, in Latin, his "Amintæ Gaudia;" and in 1593 "The Tears of Fancy," fifty-two sonnets on Love disdained. Among publications during his life-time was that of the "Ekатоμmаlia" (hundred passions), or Passionate Centurie of Love," which professed only to be "a Toy" in a prefatory "Quatorzain of the Authour unto this his Booke of Lovepassions." The passions form a series of little poems, loosely called sonnets, some of them imitations or translations from other writers, and each consisting of three six-lined stanzas, with an

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introductory prose description in the Italian manner. The following three passions are given with their several introductions, and left without change of spelling as example of the form of printed English in Elizabeth's reign (1582).

THREE SONNETS.

XLVII.

This passion conteineth a relation through out from line to line; as, from euery line of the first staffe as it standeth in order, vnto euery line of the second staffe: and from the second staffe vnto the third. The oftener it is read of him that is no great clarke, the more pleasure he shall haue in it. And this posie a scholler set down ouer this Sonnet, when he had well considered of it: Tam casu, quàm arte et industria. The two first lines are an imitation of Seraphine, Sonnetto 103.

Col tempo el Villanello al giogo mena
El Tor si fiero, e si crudo animale,
Col tempo el Falcon s'rsa à menar l'ale
E ritornare à te chiamando à pena.

In time the bull is brought to weare the yoake;
In time all haggred haukes will stoope the lures;