And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay: All day the same our postures were, And we said nothing all the day. If any, so by love refined,

That he soul's language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood, He, (though he knew not which soul spoke,

Because both meant, both spoke the same,)

Might thence a new concoction take, And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex,

We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex,

We see, we saw not what did

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched

What stirred it so. Alas! I found it love.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER:

Philaster.

Thou the fuel, and the flame;
Thou in heaven, and here, the same;
Thou the wooer, and the wooed;
Thou the hunger, and the food;
Thou the prayer, and the prayed;
Thou what is or shall be said.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

ROSALINE.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling Heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whereas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth
grace;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly
frame,

Where Nature moulds the dew of light

To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,

An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven

Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gane was the holy breath of heaven

To sing the evening psalm.

There's nought but dust now mine, lassie,

There's nought but dust now mine;

My saul's wi thee in the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'? CUNNINGHAM.

THE PEASANT'S RETURN.

AND passing here through evening dew,

He hastened happy to her door,
But found the old folk only two
With no more footsteps on the floor
To walk again below the skies
Where beaten paths do fall and rise.

For she wer gone from earthly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep
Until the good again do rise
A joy to souls they left to weep.
The rose were dust that bound her
brow;

The moth did eat her Sunday cape;
Her frock were out of fashion now;
Her shoes were dried up out of
shape.

WILLIAM BARNES.