Of life whom late their lady's arrow riv'd; And where their lady was arrived at the last. Where, when they saw that goodly boy with blood Into that forest far they thence him led, Where was their dwelling, in a pleasant glade, And in the midst a little river play'd Amongst the pumice stones, which seem'd to plain With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain. Beside the same a dainty place there lay, In which the birds sang many a lovely lay Of God's high praise, and of their sweet loves teen, As it an earthly paradise had been; In whose enclosed shadow there was pight A fair pavilion, scarcely to be seen, The which was all within most richly dight, Thither they brought that wounded squire, and laid easy couch his feeble limbs to rest: In He rested him a while, and then the maid His ready wound with better salves new drest; 2 His grievous hurt to guarish that she might, That shortly he his dolour had redrest, O foolish physic, and unfruitful pain, Of sorrow and despair without allegiance? Thus warred he long time against his will, Which as a victor proud 'gan ransack fast His inward parts, and all his entrails waste, Which seeing, fair Belphœbe 'gan to fear When the bright sun his beams thereon doth beat; Yet never he his heart to her reveal'd, But rather chose to die for sorrow great, Than with dishonourable terms her to entreat. SINCE I did leave the presence of my love, I wish that night the noyous day would end; SONNET LXXXVIII. LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough, And, wand'ring here and there, all desolate, Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove: Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss, And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss. POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS OF THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. FROM DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY. THIS bold and spirited poem has been ascribed to several authors, but to none on satisfactory authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as early as 1593, when Francis Davison, who published it in his Poetical Rhapsody, was too young to be supposed, with much probability, to have written it; and as Davison's work was a compilation, his claims to it must be very doubtful. Sir Egerton Brydges has published it among Sir Walter Raleigh's poems, but without a tittle of evidence to shew that it was the production of that great man. Mr. Ellis gives it to Joshua Sylvester, evidently by mistake. Whoever looks at the folio vol. of Sylvester's poems, will see that Joshua uses the beautiful original merely as a Text, and has the conscience to print his own stuff in a way that shews it to be interpolated. Among those additions there occur some such execrable stanzas as the following: Say, soldiers are the sink |