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 women 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 with

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 ev'ry glass may now suffice.

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

And lullaby, my wanton will,

Let reason's rule now rein 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.

Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was;
I can no more 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.

THE DOLE OF DESPAIR.

Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary

to former promises.

I MUST alledge, and thou canst tell
How faithfully I vow'd to serve:

And how thou seem'dst to like me well;
And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy lord, thy knight, thy king,
And how much more I list not sing.

And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?

Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is faith so fled into the air?
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee?

If Cressid's name were not so known,
And written wide on every wall;
If bruit of pride were not so blown
Upon Angelica withall;

For hault disdain, thou mightst be she;
Or Cressid for inconstancy.

And in reward of thy desert,

I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part,

Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make,

Since thou Orlando dost forsake.

BARNABY GOOGE,

A celebrated translator, but of whose life no particulars are known, except that he was educated at Christ's college, Cambridge, from whence he removed to Staples Inn. Supposing him to have published his first work (Eclogues, &c.) at 25 years of age, he was born in 1538. His principal work was the "Zodiak of Life," translated from Marcellus Palingenius Stellatus ; a very moral but very tiresome satire, perfectly unconnected with astronomy, printed in 1565. In 1570 he translated, from Naogeorgus, a poem on Antichrist: in 1577, he did into English Herebach's œconomical treatise on Agriculture, &c.; in 1579, Lopes de Mendoza's Spanish Proverbs, and afterwards Aristotle's Categories.

His "Eclogues, Epitaphs, and Sonnets, printed by Colwell, "for Ralph Newbery, 1563," was considered, by Mr. Steevens, as one of the rarest works in the English language; and the following extract from it, is certainly one of the happiest effusions of Googe's genius.

[To the tune of " Apelles."]

THE rushing rivers that do run,
The valleys sweet, adorned new,
That lean their sides against the sun,
With flowers fresh of sundry hue;