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At length men used charms,
To which, what maids gave ear,
Embracing gladly endless harms,
Anon enthralled were.

Thus women welcom'd woe,
Disguis'd in name of love;

A jealous hell, a painted show,
So shall they find that prove.

Hey down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens most unfitting.

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 looks a wound he took,
So deep, that for a further 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 to allure him, And but one to bid him go;

RALEIGH'S SONGS.

When lips invite, and eyes delight,

And cheeks as fresh as rose in June, Persuade delay, what boots to say, 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,
Though ne'er so fair her speeches were,
Forego me now, come to me soon!

SHALL I, LIKE A HERMIT.

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 undervalues 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,

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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 hands 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 chance hath got
To her heart a second lot,

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

The three foregoing Ballads are by SIR WALTER RALEIGH, whose chequered and eventful life is too well known, to require in this place, any comments of ours. His poetical works, although the meanest of his literary productions, are pure and classical; while his lyrics, were they generally known, would merit insertion in any collection. He was born at Haye's Farm in Devonshire, in 1552; and died upon the scaffold in 1618. See his "Last Hours," by D'Israeli.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

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WHENCE COMES MY LOVE.

WHENCE Comes my love? O heart disclose!
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil'd the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock'd the diamond's blaze:
Whence came my woes? as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,

The

eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'Tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair, bespeak my moan,
Sith nought doth say, the heart of stone.

Why thus my love, so kind, bespeak

Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain;

O Venus! take thy gifts again;

Make not so fair, to cause our moan,

Or make a heart that's like our own.

The above is "A Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her fair, as she stood at the Princess's window, in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the Court-yard," from a M. S. of JOHN HARRINGTON's, dated 1564, and inserted into the Nugæ Antiquæ. This John Harrington, Esq. says Ellis, was father to the above mentioned Sir John. In the reign of Queen Mary, he was imprisoned for having espoused the cause of Elizabeth, who rewarded his attention, by the reversion of a grant of lands at Kelston, near Bath. He was born in 1534, and died in 1582. His love verses, says Campbell, possess an elegance and terseness more modern by a hundred years, than others of his contemporaries.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet,

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah! wanton, will ye!

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The live long night;

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays, if I but sing;

He lends me every lovely thing

Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah! wanton, will ye!

Else I, with roses every day,

Will whip you hence;

And bind ye when ye long to play,

For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin— Helas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me!

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