I am no Italian lover,
That will mew thee in a jayle;
But, thy beautie I discover,
English-like, without a vail;

If thou mayst be won away,
Win and wear thee he that may.

Yet, in this thou mayst believe me;
(So indifferent tho' I seem)
Death with tortures would not grieve me,
More than loss of thy esteem;

For, if virtue me forsake,
All, a scorn of me will make.

Then, as I on thee relying
Doe no changing feare in thee;
So, by my defects supplying,
From all changing, keep thou me.

That, unmatched we may prove,
Thou, for beautie; I, for love.

WITHER.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there

can be

One stain of this earth in its feelings for

thee; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's

young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the

flower, I could harm what I love-as the sun's

wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it

away! No!-beaming with light as those young

features are, There's a light round thy heart which is

lovelier far: It is not that cheek—'tis the soul dawning

clear Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty As the sky we look up to, though glorious

and fair, Is look'd up to the more because heaven is

there!

T. MOORE.

THE WAKING BEAUTY.

Rise, lady! mistress, rise!

The night hath tedious been,
No sleep hath fallen into my eyes,

Nor slumbers made me sin :
Is not she a saint then, say,
Thought of whom keeps sin away?

Rise, madam, rise! and give me light,

Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night,

Till thou smile on thy lover: All want day till thy beauty riseFor the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.

FIELD.

WOMAN.

Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, And her lip has lost all its faint perfume, And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden

hair, And her cheek is pale—but no longer fair; And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, Is struck with cold mortality; And the smile that play'd round her lip has

fled, And every charm has now left the dead.

Like slaves they obey'd her in height of

SONNET.

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined Beneath the vast outstretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed

maid ! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.

LAMB.

Huon.-- I loved thee once! Oh! tell me, when was it I loved thee not?