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Is from

my friends away to fly,

And keep, alone, my wearied sprite. Thy face divine and my desire,

From flesh hath me transform'd to fire.

O Nature! thou that first did frame
My lady's hair of purest gold;
Her face of chrystal to the same;
Her lips of precious rubies mould;
Her neck of alabaster white
Surmounting far each other wight;

Why didst thou not, that time, devise,
Why didst thou not foresee before,

The mischief that thereof doth rise,

And grief on grief doth heap with store,

To make her heart of wax alone,

And not of flint, and marble stone.

O lady! shew thy favour yet!

Let not thy servant die for thee; Where Rigour rul'd let Mercy sit: Let Pity conquer Cruelty!

Let not Disdain, a fiend of hell,

Possess the place where Grace should dwell.


Was educated at both universities; studied at Gray's Inn; quitted the law for the army; served in the war in the Low Countries, and died in 1578. If Wood's account be accurate, his birth may perhaps be placed about the year 1540 but as he mentions his "crooked age and "hoary hairs," I suspect that he was born much earlier. 66 Among the lesser late poets," says Edmund Boltou, in his Hypercritica, "George Gascoigne's works may be endured." Puttenham praises him for "a good metre and 66 a plentiful vein ;" and Nash says of him, that "he "first beat the path to that perfection which our best poets have aspired to since his departure." He is mentioned with praise by the editor of the Reliques of Ancient Poetry; and Mr Warton is of opinion that he "has much exceeded all the poets of his age in smooth

ness and harmony of versification."

His "Jocasta," in which he was assisted by Francis Kynwelmarsh, is a very respectable performance: his "Supposes," a comedy translated from the Suppositi of Ariosto, is distinguished by uncommon ease and elegance of dialogue; but in his smaller poems he is certainly too dif fuse, and full of conceit.

There are three collected editions of his works, in 1572, 1575, and 1587, 4to, all of which are rare, and seldom found complete.

A strange Passion of a Lover.

I LAUGH sometimes with little lust;
So jest I oft, and feel no joy;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,


And yet mistrust breeds mine
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have and miss the thing I crave.


Then like the lark, that past the night
In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
Yet, when she spies the pleasant light,

She sends sweet notes from out her breast,

So sing I now, because I think

How joys approach when sorrows shrink.

And as fair Philomene again

Can watch and sing when other sleep,

And taketh pleasure in her pain,

To 'wray the wo that makes her weep,

So sing I now, for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.


The which to thee, dear wench, I write,

That know'st my mirth, but not my moan;
I pray God grant thee deep delight,.
To live in joys when I am gone.

I cannot live; it will not be ;
I die to think to part from thee,

The Lullaby of a Lover.

SING lullaby, as lovers do,

Wherewith they bring their babes to rest; And lullaby can I sing too,

As womanly as can the best. With lullaby they still the child; And, if I be not much beguil'd, Full many wanton babes have I, Which must be still'd with lullaby.

First lullaby my youthful years!
It is now time to go to bed:

For, crooked age and hoary hairs

Have won the haven within my head,

With lullaby then youth be still,

With lullaby content thy will;

Since courage quails, and comes behind,

Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!

Next, lullaby my gazing eyes,

Which wonted were to glance apace; For every glass may now suffice



To shew the furrows in
With lullaby then wink a while;
With lullaby your looks beguile;
Let no fair face, nor beauty bright,
Entice you eft with vain delight.

And lullaby, my wanton will!

Let reason's rule now reign thy thought, Since all too late I find by skill

How dear I have thy fancies bought;
With lullaby now take thine ease,
With lullaby thy doubts appease;
For, trust to this, if thou be still,
My body shall obey thy will.

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Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was !
I can no mo delays devise;

But, welcome pain, let pleasure pass.
With lullaby now take your leave,
With lullaby your dreams deceive,
And, when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.



Ed. 1572, "Gascoigne's."


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