None is happy but a glutton,

None an ass but who wants money.

CHORUS.

Wines indeed, and girls are good,
But brave victuals feast the blood.
For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer,
Jove would leap down to surfeit here.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

[From the same.]

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too: then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how,)

With these the chrystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin;

All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me!

SONG.

[From "Gallathea."]

O YES! O yes! if any maid

Whom leering Cupid has betray'd

To frowns of spite, to eyes

of

scorn,

And would in madness now see torn

The boy in pieces; let her come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

O yes! O yes! has any lost

A heart which many a sigh hath cost!
Is any cozen'd of a tear

Which, as a pearl, Disdain does wear?
Here stands the thief; let her but come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

Is any one undone by fire,

And turn'd to ashes through desire?
Did ever any lady weep,

Being cheated of her golden sleep,

Stol'n by sick thoughts? the pirate's found, And in her tears he shall be drown'd.

Read his indictment: let him hear

What he's to trust to: Boy, give ear.

SONG.

[In Sappho and Phaon.]

O CRUEL love! on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind the day:
Never may sleep, with velvet hand,
Charm thine eyes with sacred wand!

Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears,
Thy prison-mates, groans, sighs, and tears;
Thy play (to wear out weary times)
Fantastic passions, vows, and rhimes.
Thy bread be frowns, thy drink be gall,—

Hope, like thy fool, at thy bed's head,
Mock thee, 'till madness strike thee dead;
As, Phaon, thou dost me with thy proud eyes:
In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies.

VULCAN'S SONG.

[In the same.]

My shag-hair'd Cyclops, come, let's ply

Our Lemnian hammers lustily:

Shall singing fly

Through many a wanton's eye.

These headed are with golden blisses,

These silver ones feather'd with kisses,
But this of lead

Strikes a clown dead,

When in a dance

He falls into a trance,

To see his black-brow lass not buss him,

And then whines out for death t' entruss him.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

The anecdotes of the short, but brilliant life of this accomplished man, to whose patronage our literature owes so many obligations, are too well known to require any notice in this place. Considered as a poet, he was certainly too much infected with that fondness for conceit and antithesis, which the example of the Italian writers had rendered fashionable; but this fault in him, was evidently the effect of imitation, not of character; and is often compensated by real wit, and elegance, and facility. His amatory poems are not whining lamentations about the perfections and cruelty of an ideal paragon, but are lively, dramatic, and descriptive of real passion.

The Arcadia, if considered as a romance, is tiresome and uninteresting; so that few readers have the patience to search for the many curious and many animated descriptions, the acute observations, and just sentiments, with which it abounds, and which induced Sir William Temple to describe this author as "the greatest poet, and the noblest genius of

any that have left writings in our own, or any modern "language."

The first edition of the Arcadia appeared in 1590, and the second in 1593. The Defence of Poesy, which, in the modern edition, is printed with it, and which is valuable as a most judicious and early piece of criticism, was first published in 1595.

Sir Philip Sidney was born the 29th of November, 1554, and died of a wound received before Zutphen, on the 22d of Sept. 1586.