MORLEY'S BALLADS.

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I SAW MY LOVELY PHILLIS.

I saw my lovely Phillis

Laid on a bank of lilies,

But when herself alone she there espieth,
On me she smileth, and home away she flieth.

Why flies my best beloved,

From me her love approved?

See, see what I have here, fine sweet musk roses, To deck that bosom, where love herself reposes.

WHAT SAITH MY DAINTY DARLING.

WHAT saith my dainty darling,

Shall I now your love obtain?

Long time I sued for grace,

And grace you granted me,
When time shall serve and place,
Can any fitter be?

This crystal running fountain,

In his language, saith, come love!
The birds, the trees, the fields,

Else none can us behold;
This bank soft lying yields,

And saith, nice fools, be bold.

YOU THAT WONT TO MY PIPES SOUND.

You that wont to my pipes sound,
Daintily to tread your ground;

Jolly shepherds, and nymphs sweet, lirum, lirum,
Under the weather, hand in hand uniting,
The lovely god come greet: lirum, lirum.

Lo! triumphing, brave comes he,

All in pomp and majesty,

Monarch of the world and king; lirum, lirum,

Let who so list him, dare to resist him,

We our voice uniting, of his high acts will sing: &c.

MAY NEVER WAS THE MONTH OF LOVE.

MAY never was the month of love,

For May is full of flowers;
But rather April wet by kind,

For love is full of showers.

With soothing words, enthralling souls,'
She chains in servile bands!
Her eye in silence hath a speech,
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap, immortal harms;

Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs, bewitching charms.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

Like winter rose, and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her, hope-behind, remorse,

Fair first, in fine, unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,

Leave off your idle pain;

Seek other mistress for your mind,

Love's service is in vain.

LOSS IN DELAYS.

SHUN delays, they breed remorse,
Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force,

Fly their fault, least thou repent thee:
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingering labour comes to nought.

Hoist up sail, while gale doth lost,
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure;
Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure:
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,

Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies he turns no more,

And behind, his scalp is naked:

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Works adjourn'd have many stays,
Long demurs breed new delays.

Seek thy salve while sore is green,
Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing;
After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing:
Time and place give best advice,
Out of season, out of price.

The two foregoing Ballads are by ROBERT SOUTHWELL, a very superior, though voluminous and religious, poet, in the reign of Elizabeth. He was born in 1562; and, upon the 21st February, 1595 or 1596, he was hanged and quartered at Tyburn for his adherence to Jesuitical principles. It is remarkable, says Ellis, that the few copies of his works which are now known to exist, are the remnants of at least twenty-four different editions, of which eleven were printed betwixt 1593 and 1600.

THE GENTLE SEASON OF THE YEAR.

THE gentle season of the

year

Hath made my blooming branch appear,
And beautified the land with flowers;

The air doth savour with delight,

The heavens do smile to see the sight,

And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

The meads are mantled all with

green,

The trembling leaves have cloth'd the treen,

The birds, with feathers new, do sing;

PHOENIX NEST.

But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack,
Attire myself in mourning black,

Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

And as you see the scarlet rose,
In her sweet prime, her sweets disclose,
Whose hue is with the sun reviv'd;

So in the April of mine age,

My lively colours do assuage,

Because my sunshine is deprived.

My heart that wonted was, of

yore,

Light as the winds abroad to soar,

Amongst the buds, when beauty springs,

Now only hovers over you,

As doth the bird that's taken anew,

And mourns when all her neighbours sing.

When every man is bent to sport,
Then pensive I alone resort

Into some solitary walk,

As doth the doleful turtle dove,
Who, having lost her faithful love,

Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

Then to myself I do recount,

How far my woes my joys surmount,
How love requiteth me with hate;
How all my pleasures end in pain,
How hate doth say my hope is vain,

How fortune frowns upon my state.

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