Loses them, too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),

With these the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin;

All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

O Cupid!

O CUPID! monarch over kings,
Wherefore hast thou feet and wings?

Is it to show how swift thou art,

When thou woundest a tender heart?

Thy wings being clipped, and feet held still, Thy bow so many could not kill.

It is all one in Venus' wanton school,
Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool

Fools in love's college

Have far more knowledge

To read a woman over,

Than a neat prating lover :

Nay, 'tis confessed,

That fools please women best.

Sir Pbilip Sydney

a soldier, a poet, and the friend of poets, was born at Penshurst Castle in Kent in 1554. Queen Elizabeth, it is said, exerted her influence to prevent Sydney from being elected King of Poland, 'refusing to further his advancement, out of fear that she should lose the jewel of her times.' He received his death-wound in 1586 before Zutphen. Thirsty with loss of blood, he called for water, and he was putting the bottle to his mouth when he beheld the wistful glances of a dying soldier. He delivered the bottle of water to the poor man, saying, 'Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.' The stories indicate his eminence and generous character. His body was interred in St. Paul's Cathedral. He was the author of The Defence of Poesy and numerous sonnets.

Sonnet to Stella

My true Love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he can not miss ;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one ;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart :
For, as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his heart did smart.
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true Love hath my heart, and I have his.

The Serenade

'WHO is it that this dark night

Underneath my window plaineth ?'It is one who from thy sight

Being (ah!) exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light.

'Why, alas! and are you he?

Are not yet these fancies changed?'Dear, when you find change in me,

Though from me you be estranged, Let my change to ruin be.

'What if you new beauties see?

Will not they stir new affection?'

I will think they pictures be

(Image-like of saint perfection)

Poorly counterfeiting thee.

'Peace! I think that some give ear, Come, no more, lest I get anger.'Bliss! I will my bliss forbear,

Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; But my soul shall harbour there.

'Well, begone: begone, I say,

Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you.'—

O! unjust is Fortune's sway,

Which can make me thus to leave you,

And from louts to run away!

6

Fulke Greville

'servant to Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King James, and friend to
Sir Philip Sydney,' was the inscription he desired should be placed on
his tomb. Queen Elizabeth held him in great favour, and James 1.
granted him Warwick Castle, and later raised him to the peerage as
Baron Brooke. He was born in 1554, and died in 1628 from a
stab wound inflicted by a revengeful servant.

Love for Love

AWAY with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of those that lie asleep!

For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweep Cupid's shafts, like destiny,
Do causeless good or ill decree ;
Desert is borne out of his bow,

Reward upon his wing doth go!

What fools are they that have not known

That Love likes no laws but his own.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holy-days,
In every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same.

Where Honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well-fare nothing, once a year;

For many run, but one must win,
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move,
Is love, that is the bow of Love;
And love as well the foster can,

As can the mighty noble-man :

Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet, without love, nought worth to me.