Cupid. "Why, man, thou dost deceive thyself, Or else my mother lies,

Who said, altho' that I were blind,

My arrows should have eyes."

Clown. "Why then thy mother is a fool,
And thou art but an elf,

Cupid.

To let thy arrows to have eyes,
And go without, thyself."

"Not so, sir swain, but hold your prate; If I do take a shaft,

I'll make thee ken what I can do!"

With that the ploughman laugh'd.

Then angry Cupid drew his bow.

Clown.

"For God's sake slay me not!"

Cupid. "I'll make thy lither liver ache." "Nay! I'll be loth of that!"

Clown.

The stinging arrow hit the mark,
And pierc'd his silly soul;

You might know by his hollow eyes

Where Love had made a hole.

And so the clown went bleeding home;

(To stay it was no boot)

And found, that he could see to hit,

That could not see to shoot.

To his forsaken Mistress.

[The following song had been, in the first edition of this work, assigned to the reign of Charles I. on the internal evidence of its style and sentiment. The editor has lately found it in a musical miscellany, entitled "Select Ayres and Dialogues," of which a second edition was printed for John Playford in 1659.]

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee;

Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone

As worthy to be lov'd by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind

Which kisseth every thing it meets.
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd stands,

Arm'd with her briars, how sweet she smells!
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;

But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,

When thou hast handled been a while!

With sere-flowers to be thrown aside,

And I shall sigh, when some will smile, To see thy love to every one

Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none!

To the Moon 1.

[From a MS.]

THOU Silent Moon, that look'st so pale,

So much exhausted, and so faint, Wandering over hill and dale,

Watching oft the kneeling saint— Hearing his groans float on the galeNo wonder thou art tir'd and pale.

Yet I have often seen thee bring

Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep;

Then, with a smile, their lustre fling

Full on the dark and roaring deep;

When the pilgrim's heart did fail,
And when near lost the tossing sail.

Sure, that passing blush deceives;

For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold!

1 The editor has to apologize to the authoress of the two following beautiful little poems, Miss Scott, of Ancram, for having printed them without her permission. For inserting compositions so much in the spirit of one of the most interesting periods of our early poetry, though the productions of the reign of George III., he cannot think any apology due to the reader.

Love our blossoms seldom leaves;

But thou art of a different mould. Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail! And, prithee, look not quite so pale!

Yet stay-perhaps thou'rt travell'd far,
Exulting in thy conscious light;

Till, as I fear, some youthful Star

Hath spread his charms before thy sight; And, when he found his arts prevail, He left thee, sickening, faint, and pale.

The Owl.

[From the same MS.]

WHILE the Moon, with sudden gleam,

Through the clouds that cover her,

Darts her light upon the stream,
And the poplars gently stir,

Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry!
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
Sure, thy notes are harmony!

While the maiden, pale with care,
Wanders to the lonely shade,

Sighs her sorrows to the air,

While the flowerets round her fade,

Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,

Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To her it is not harmony!

While the wretch, with mournful dole,

Wrings his hands in agony,

Praying for his brother's soul

Whom he pierced suddenly,Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky, To him it is not harmony.