There stands the constable, there stands the We call him Fame, for that the wide-mouth whore, And harkening to the song, mark not each Will eat as fast as he will utter lies; other;

IN DACUM. XLV.

Dacus with some good colour and pretence,
Terms his love's beauty "silent eloquence;"
For she doth lay more colours on her face,
Than ever Tully used his speech to grace.

IN MARCUM. XLVI.

Why dost thou, Marcus, in thy misery
Rail and blaspheme, and call the heavens
unkind?

The heavens do owe no kindness unto
thee,

Thou hast the heavens so little in thy

mind:

For in thy life thou never usest prayer,
But at primero, to encounter fair.

MEDITATIONS OF A GULL. XLVII.

See yonder melancholy gentleman,
Which hoodwinked with his hat, alone
doth sit!

Think what he thinks and tell me, if you
can,

What great affairs trouble his little wit.

He thinks not of the war 'twixt France and
Spain,

Whether it be for Europe good or ill,

AD MUSAM. XLVIII.

Peace, idle Muse, have done! for it is tim
Since lousy Ponticus envies me fame,
And swears the better sort are much t
blame

To make me so well known for my ill rhyme
Yet Banks his horse is better known than he
So are the camels and the western hog,
And so is Lepidus his printed dog:
Why doth not Ponticus their fames envy?
Besides this Muse of mine, and the blac
feather,

Grew both together fresh in estimation,
And both grown stale, were cast away to
gether:

What fame is this that scarce lasts out a fashion?

Nor whether the Empire can itself main-Only this last in credit doth remain,

tain

Against the Turkish power encroaching still;

Nor what great town in all the Nether-
lands

The States determine to besiege this spring,
Nor how the Scottish policy now stands,
Nor what becomes of the Irish mutining.

That from henceforth each bastard cas

Ignoto.

I LOVE thee not for sacred chastity.
Who loves for that? nor for thy sprightly wit:
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
Which makes thee in perfection's throne to
sit.

I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
Thy beauty, ravishing perfection :
I love thee not for unchaste luxury,
Nor for thy body's fair proportion.

I love thee not for that my soul doth dance,
And leap with pleasure when those lips of
thine,

Give musical and graceful utterance,
To some (by thee made happy) poet's line.
I love thee not for voice or slender small,
But wilt thou know wherefore? fair sweet,
for all.

'Faith wench! I cannot court thy sprightly
eyes,

With the base viol placed between my thighs:
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high stretched minikin.
I cannot whine in puling elegies.
Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies :
I am not fashioned for these amorous times,
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes:
I cannot dally, caper, dance and sing,
Oiling my saint with supple sonneting:

Or show my love as musky courtiers do;
I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
In this same bezzling drunken courtesy:
And when all's quaffed, eat up my bousing
glass,

In glory that I am thy servile ass.
Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,
As some sworn peasant to a female smock.
Well-featured lass, thou know'st I love thee
dear,

Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear,
To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there :
Nor for thy love will I once gnash a brick,
Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick.

But by the chaps of hell, to do thee good,
I'll freely spend my thrice decocted
blood.

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love.

[This beautiful song was first printed in 1599 in The Passionate Pilgrim as Shakspeare's, but in the following year is found in England's Helicon with the name Chr. Marlow appended to it, and followed by The Nimph's Reply to the Sheepheard, and Another of the same nature, made since. The former of these has always been assigned to Sir Walter Raleigh; but in England's Helicon both have the word Ignoto attached to them, which is equivalent to the Anon." of the present day. Marlowe's famous song should never be printed without them. I have here given, in the first instance, the version made popular by Isaak Walton, and afterwards the three sister poems copied verbatim et literatim from Mr. Collier's beautiful reprint of the old Anthology.]

COME live with me, and be my love;
And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds
With coral clasps, and amber-studs:

Aud, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

[Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.]

The shepherd swains shall dance and si
For thy delight each May-morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

The Passionate Sheepheard to his Loue.

COME liue with mee, and be my loue
And we will all the pleasures proue,
That Vallies, groues, hills and fieldes,
Woods, or steepie mountaine yeeldes.

And wee will sit vpon the Rocks,
Seeing the Sheepheards feede theyr
flocks,

By shallow Riuers, to whose falls,
Melodious byrds sings Madrigalls.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant poesies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Imbroydred all with leaues of Mirtle.

FINIS

A gowne made of the finest wooll
Which from our pretty Lambes we pull,
Fayre lined slippers for the cold:
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw, and Iuie buds,
With Corall clasps and Amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee moue,
Come liue with mee, and be my loue.

The Sheepheards Swaines shall daunc
and sing,

For thy delight each May-morning,
If these delights thy mind may moue;
Then liue with mee, and be my loue.
CHR. MARLOW.

The Nimphs Reply to the Sheepheard.

IF all the world and loue were young,
And truth in euery Sheepheards tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me moue,
To liue with thee, and be thy loue.

Time driues the flocks from field to fold,
When Riuers rage and Rocks grow
cold,

And Philomell becommeth dombe,

The rest complaines of cares to come.

The flowers doe fade and wanton fieldes,
To wayward winter reckoning yeeldes,
A honny tongue, a hart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrowes fall.

Thy gounes, thy shooes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy poesies,
Soone breake, soone wither, soone for
gotten:

In follie ripe, in reason rotten.