Cold December hope retains,

That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins

Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving:

But thy scythe

Ends his strife,

And to Lethe sends him driving.

UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.

[From Alison's "Hour's Recreation in Musick,"

1606.]

IN

hope a king doth go to war,
In hope, a lover lives full long;
In hope, a merchant sails full far,

In hope, just men do suffer wrong:
In hope, the ploughman sows his seed:
Thus hope helps thousands at their need:
Then faint not, heart, among the rest,
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.

Though wit bids will to blow retreat,

Will cannot work as wit could wish. When that the roach doth taste the bait, Too late to warn the hungry fish.

When cities burn on fiery flame,

Great rivers scarce may quench the same:
If will and fancy be agreed,

Too late for wit to bid take heed.

[From Wilbye's" Second set of Madrigales,” 1609.]

Love not me for comely grace,

For my pleasing eye or face,

Nor for any outward part,

No, nor for my constant heart;
For those may fail, or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever;

Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever.

[From the same.]

DRAW on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares
That do arise from painful melancholy;
My life so ill through want of comfort fares,
That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.

Sweet night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from

paining;

And while thou all in silence dost enfold,

I then shall have best time for my complaining.

[From the same.]

So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When she revisits Cyprus' hallow'd bowers,
Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,
Can draw her chariot 'midst the Paphian flowers.
Lightness to love how ill it fitteth,
So heavy on my heart she sitteth.

[From the same.]

HAPPY, oh happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares,
With mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares!
Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage
Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.

Hymen's Eclogue between Admetus and Menalchas.

[From "A new Spring, shadowed in sundry pithie Poems," printed by G. Eld, for Thomas Bailie, 1619. 4to. By Musophilus.]

Menalchas.

WHAT makes Admetus sad?-Whate'er it be,
Some cause there is that thus hath alter'd thee !

Is it the loss of substance? or of friends ?
Or, thy content in discontentment ends?
Is it some scruple in thy conscience,

Which, unresolved, doth leave thee in suspence?
Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love shouldst leese?
Admet. No, no Menalchas, it is none of these!

Men. Thou art not sick?

Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well.

Men. Where lies thy grief?

Admet. My countenance can tell!

Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy count'nance fresh enough!

Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind as rough.

Men. Of cares, Admetus ?

Admet. Yes! I have my share!

Men. Yet, hope of cure!

Admet. No hope of cure to care!