This was the mark at which I shot so fast;

Unto this height I did aspire.

Proud Love, now do thy worst, and spare not;
For thee and all thy shafts I care not!

What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind?
What life to quicken dead desire?

I count thy words and oaths as light as wind;
I feel no heat in all thy fire.

Go charge thy bows, and get a stronger;
Go break thy shafts, and buy thee longer.

In vain thou bait'st thy hook with Beauty's blaze;
In vain thy wanton eyes allure:

These are but toys, for them that love to gaze:
I know what harm thy looks procure: -
Some strange conceit must be devised,
Or thou and all thy skill despised.

The two following Poems are taken from CAYLEY'S LIFE OF RALEGH; but it is not known from which of the authorities referred to by him they are extracted.

Dulcina.

As at noon Dulcina rested

In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.
But from her look

A wound he took

So deep, that for a farther boon

The nymph he prays;

Whereto she says,

"Forego me now, come to me soon!"

But in vain she did conjure him

To depart her presence so,

Having a thousand tongues t' allure him,
And but one to bid him go.

When lips invite,

And eyes delight,

And cheeks as fresh as rose in June,

He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now?
She says, Night gives love that leisure
Which the day doth not allow.
He says, the sight
Improves delight;

Which she denies; "Night's murky noon

66

In Venus' plays

Makes bold," she says,

Forego me now, come to me soon!"

But what promise, or profession,

From his hands could purchase scope?

Who would sell the sweet possession

Of such beauty for a hope?

Or for the sight

Of lingering night,

Forego the present joys of noon?

Tho' ne'er so fair

Her speeches were,

Forego me now, come to me soon!"

How at last agreed these lovers?

She was fair, and he was young:

The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers;
Joys unseen are never sung.

RALEGH, MISC. WORKS.

3 A

Did she consent,

Or he relent?

Accepts he night, or grants she noon? Left he her maid,

Or not? She said

"Forego me now, come to me soon!”

His Love admits no Rival.
SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be!

Were her tresses angel gold,

If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be!

Were her lips as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be!

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show;

Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot,

Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!

His Pilgrimaged.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon;
My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory, (hope's true gage)
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,

No other balm will here be given,
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven,

Over all the silver mountains,

Where do spring those nectar fountains:

And I there will sweetly kiss

The happy bowl of peaceful bliss,

Drinking mine eternal fill

Flowing on each milky hill.

My soul will be adry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.

In that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparell'd fresh like me;
I'll take them first,

To slake their thirst;

And then taste of nectar suckets,

d This has been very much improved by following a copy in the MS. already quoted, p. 716.

At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells,

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are fill'd with immortality,

Then those holy paths we'll travel
Strew'd with rubies thick as gravel;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
No forg'd accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferr'd, no vainspent journey;
For there Christ is the King's attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.

Then this is mine eternal plea,

To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,

Seeing my flesh must die so soon,

And want a head to dine next noon,

Just at the stroke of death, my arms being spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head.

So shall I ready, like a palmer fit,

Tread those bless'd paths shown in thy holy writ.

Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die welle!

These two concluding lines not in the Rawlinson MS.