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To suppress the fire of zeal

Both in church and common-weal?

No, there's nought on earth I fear
That may force from me one tear.
Loss of honours, freedom, health,
Or that mortal idol, wealth;
With these babes may grieved be,
But they have no power o'er me.
Less my substance, less my share
In my fear and in my care.

Thus to love, and thus to live, Thus to take, and thus to give, Thus to laugh, and thus to sing, Thus to mount on pleasure's wing, Thus to sport, and thus to speed, Thus to flourish, nourish, feed, Thus to spend, and thus to spare, Is to bid a fig for care.

WILLIAM BROWNE

SEEMS to have been born about 1590 at Tavistock, in Devonshire, where he was instructed in grammatical learning. Having passed some time at Exeter College, Oxford, he quitted the University without a degree, entered into the Society of the Middle Temple, and published in 1613 the first part of his "Britannia's Pastorals," fol. In 1614 was published his "Shepherd's Pipe," 8vo, (contained also in the pirated edition of Wither, 1620,) and in 1616 the second part of the Pastorals, folio. Both parts were reprinted in 1625, 8vo. In 1624 he returned to Exeter College, and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards Earl of Carnarvon. During his stay he was created A.M., being styled in the public register "Vir omni humanâ literaturâ et bonarum artium cognitione instructus." then went into the family of the Earl of Pembroke, obtained wealth, and purchased an estate, and is supposed to have died in 1645. See Wood (Ath. Ox. i. 491), who says, "that as he had a little body, so a great mind." A neat edition of his works, which were become scarce, was published in 1772, in three small volumes, by Mr. Thomas Davies, the laudable reviver of several forgotten poets.

He

We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his "Shepherd's Pipe " a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works to 66 have been well known to Milton," and refers to "Britannia's Pastorals" for the same assemblage of circumstances in a morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton, in a passage of L'Allegro, which has

been supposed to serve as a repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets. Warton's Milton, second ed. p. 51.

LAY.

[In "Britannia's Pastorals," book ii. Song 2.]

SHALL I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me:

And if such a woman move
As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath;

Full of pity as may be,

Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or-so,

That she be but somewhile
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

young;

Thyrsis' Praise of his Mistress.

[From "England's Helicon."]

On a hill that grac'd the plain
Thyrsis sate, a comely swain,

Comelier swain ne'er grac'd a hill ; Whilst his flock, that wander'd nigh, Cropt the green grass busily,

Thus he tun'd his oaten quill:

"Ver hath made the pleasant field Many several odours yield,

Odours aromatical:

From fair Astra's cherry lip
Sweeter smells for ever skip,

They in pleasing passen all.

"Leavy groves now mainly ring
With each sweet bird's sonnetting,
Notes that make the echoes long:
But when Astra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,
And are listening to her song.

"Fairly spreads the damask rose, Whose rare mixture doth disclose

Beauties, pencils cannot feign:

Yet, if Astra pass the bush,
Roses have been seen to blush;

She doth all their beauties stain.

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"Fields are blest with flowery wreath, Air is blest when she doth breathe;

Birds make happy every grove, She each bird when she doth sing; Phoebus heat to earth doth bring,

She makes marble fall in love."

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