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Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd;
So that myself bring water for my stain,
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

FROM THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.
TAKE, oh! take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn;
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow,

Are of those that April wears.
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee. (a)

SONG.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ;

Men were deceivers ever ;
One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never :

(a) This song is sometimes attributed to Beaumont and Fletcher.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny ;
Converting all your sounds of wo

Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy ;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy :

Then sigh not so, &c.

ARIEL'S SONG.

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie ;
There I couch when owls do cry ;
On the bat’s back I do fly,

After summer, merrily ;
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

WINTER, A SONG. When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail ; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whọc ! Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whoo !
Tu-whit! tu-whoo ! a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

BORN 1563-DIED 1631.

DRAYTON, who is still read, and even admired, was born at

Atherston, in Warwickshire. He studied at Oxford, but took no degree; neither was he bred to any profession, unless poetry be one. To him it proved but an indifferent calling. Through life he was dependent on patrons. Drayton's works, which are voluminous, consist of pastorals published while he was young; Polyolbion, or a Description of Great Britain, in verse; England's Heroical Epistles ; and the Barons' Wars. All his poems contain fine and even splendid passages, interspersed with many as dull and tedious. The Nymphidia," selected as a specimen of Drayton, has much of the sportive fancy and airy grace of the Rape of the Lock. The gal. lant Pigwiggen is the knight of Lilliputian romance, and the intrigue of Queen Mab the most amusing on poeti. cal record. The pastoral tale of Dowsabel is one which every body likes, though no one has been able to tell precisely for what.

It is lively and natural, and descriptive

of antique manners ; and this is excellence enough with those who in reading seek only amusement.

FROM THE NYMPHIDIA.

But listen, and I shall you tell
A chance in Faery that befel,
Which certainly may please some well,

In love and arms delighting :
Of Oberon, that jealous grew
Of one of his own Fairy crew,
Too well (he fear'd) his queen that knew,

His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fairy knight,
One wondrous gracious in the sight
Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night

He amorously observed :
Which made King Oberon suspect
His service took too good effect,
His sauciness and often checkt,

And could have wish'd him starved.

Pigwiggen gladly would commend
Some token to Queen Mab to send,
If sea or land him aught could lend,

Were worthy of her wearing :
At length this lover doth devise
A bracelet made of emmet's eyes,
A thing he thought that she would prize,

No whit her state impairing.

And to the queen a letter writes,
Which he most curiously indites,
Conjuring her by all the rites

Of love, she would be pleased
To meet him her true servant, where
They might without suspect or fear
Themselves to one another clear,

And have their poor hearts eased.

“ At midnight the appointed hour,
And for the queen a fitting bow'r,
(Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flow'r,

On Hipcut-hill that groweth :
In all your train there's not a Fay,
That ever went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,

The tallest there that groweth."

When by Tom Thumb, a fairy page,
He sent it, and doth him engage,
By promise of a mighty wage,

It secretly to carry :
Which done, the queen her maids doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would go see her summer hall,

She could no longer tarry.

Her chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay'd,

For nought must her be letting :
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
The harnesses of gossamer,
Fly Cranion, her charioteer,

Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel ;
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,

So lively was the limning :
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a py'd butterflee,

I trow, 'twas simple trimming.

The wheels composed of cricket's bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,

With thistle-down they shod it:

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