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SIR ROBERT AYTON.

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Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,

I might perchance have yet been thine;
But thou thy freedom did recal,
That, if thou might, elsewhere enthral;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain!

When new desires had conquer'd thee,
And chang'd the object of thy will;

It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy, to love thee still:

Yea, it had been a sin to go

And prostitute affection so;

Since we are taught no prayers to say,
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice, of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice

To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee,
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar's door.

The author of the above Sonnet, SIR ROBERT AYTON, in 1606, says Pinkerton, wrote some Latin poems in the Delicia Poetarum Scotarum, and some light genteel pieces in English, two of which are published in Select Scottish Ballads, vol. I. One or two more may be found in a collection of Scottish Poems by Watson the

printer, published, according to Alexander Campbell, editor of Albyn's Anthology, in 1706-9-11-12. Ayton was Private Secretary to Queen Anne of Denmark, wife of James the Sixth; he is little known as a poet, but the present specimen must induce a regret that he had not written more—it rivals even the Sonnets of Drummond in elegance of fancy and harmony of versification.

THE JOLLY ALE-DRINKER.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think, that I can drink
With him that wears a hood:
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a cold.

I stuff my skin so full within,
With jolly good ale and old.
Back and sides go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;

But belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast, but a nut brown toast,
And a crab laid on the fire;

A little bread shall serve my stead,

For much I not desire,

No frost or snow, no wind I know,

Can hurt me if I would:

I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd

With jolly good ale and old.

Back and sides go, &c.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

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And Tib my wife, that as her life,
Loveth good ale to seek;

Full oft drinks she, till you may see

The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,
Even as a malt-woman should;
And faith, sweet-heart, I took my part

Of this jolly good ale and old.

Back and sides go, &c.

The above Bacchanalian Piece is by Dr. JOHN STILL, born at Grantham, in Lincolnshire, about 1542. After passing through several gradations in the church, and having been successively Master of St. John's and Trinity Colleges, and Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, he attained the mitre at Bath and Wells, after the demise of Bishop Godwin, and died in 1607.

Some curious notices regarding Dr. Still, will be found in the Nugæ Antiquæ, contained in a Letter from John Harrington to Prince Henry, wherein are several strong delineations of the simple humour and genius of these times.

Bishop Still was author of the earliest English drama, that exhibited any approaches to regular comedy, "Gamer Gurton's Needle," acted in 1566, though not printed until 1575, in which "the Jolly Ale-Drinkers" first appeared. Our copy of the Ballad is taken from "Poor Robin's Almanack," for 1708, on the left hand side of this eccentric compiler's column for April.

THE CHOICE.

SHE that denies me, I would have;

Who craves me, I despise;

Venus hath power to rule mine heart,

But not to please mine eyes:

Temptations offer'd I still scorn,
Denied, I cling them still;
I'll neither glut mine appetite,
Nor seek to starve my will.

Diana doubly clothed, offends;
So Venus, naked quite:
The last begets a surfeit, and

The other no delight.

That crafty girl shall please me best,

That no for yea can say,
And every wanton willing kiss,

Can season with a nay.

GIVE MY LOVE GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good-morrow:
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow;

To give my love good-morrow,

Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,

Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each bill let music shrill,

Give my fair love good-morrow;

FRANCIS DAVIDSON.

Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in
every furrow.

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The above sprightly Sonnets are from the "Rape of Lucrece," 1608, by THOMAS HEYWOOD, the time of whose birth and death are alike unknown. He was an actor, and had more traffic with the stage than any man who ever lived, if we except the Spanish author, Lope de Vega. Heywood must indeed have been a man of prodigious industry, having, besides numerous other works, and attending to his business as an actor, had either, as is stated in the preface to his "English Traveller," an entire hand, or at least a main finger, in 220 plays, published betwixt 1596 and 1640; so say the learned editors of the "Old English Drama," while Ellis in his "Specimens" reduces their number to 120. Of this great number of plays, no more than 23 have come down to us, besides nine others which are doubtfully attributed to him. His Songs are scattered over his remaining plays, and are of various merit.

LOVERS' FOLLIES.

IF love be life, I long to die,
Live they that list for me:
And he that gains the most thereby,

A fool at least shall be.

But he that feels the sorest fits,

'Scapes with no less than loss of wits:

Unhappy life they gain,

Which love do entertain.

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