O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,

1

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's

throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd', which new-born3 flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles *, slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

5

SONNET.

SWEET Spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers!

The Zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The Clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.

Thou turn'st', sweet youth! but ah! my pleasant hours

6 So ed. 1616.-Ed. 1657," Dost return ?"

3" do the."

And happy days with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to sours! Thou art the same which still thou wert' before ;

Delicious, lusty 3, amiable, fair:

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone! nor gold nor gems can her restore. Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come,

5

When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET.

[To the Nightingale.]

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,

Well pleased with delights which present are ;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare ;
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs

Attir'd in sweetness sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?

1 "in."

4 "her can."

2"wast."

3 "wanton."
5" While."

Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays!

THIS world a hunting is ;

The prey poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death;

His speedy greyhounds are

Lust, sickness, envy, care,

Strife, that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.

Now, if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,

Old age, with stealing pace,

Casts on his nets, and there we panting die.

[The following Sonnet is taken from "The Flowres of Sion," ed. 1656. The variations noted at the foot of the page are from ed. 1630.]

THE weary mariner so far1 not flies

An howling tempest, harbour to obtain,

Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise,
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,

As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain,

Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain

1 "fast."

From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. To me the world did once 1 seem sweet and fair, While senses light, mind's perspective kept blind, Now like imagin'd landscape in the air,

And weeping rain-bows her best joys I find:

Or if ought here is had that praise should have,
It is an obscure life and silent grave.

3

DAVID MURRAY.

THE following specimen is to be found in his " Cælia, containing certaine Sonets" annexed to "The Tragicall Death of Sophonisba," 12mo, 1611, London. Concerning this author we have no particulars to add, except that he signs himself "Scoto-Brittaine," and that complimentary verses are inscribed to him, under the title of "loving cousin," by John Murray; of "kind friend," by M. Drayton; and of "dear friend," by Simon Graham. As the two first sonnets, however, in the volume are addressed to Henry Prince of Wales, it appears not improbable that he may have been Sir David Murray, gentleman of the bedchamber, and afterwards groom of the stole to that prince.

TO AURORA.

PALE sad Aurora, leave thy showers to rain,
(Of pearl-like chrystal tears thou daily sheds,)
In tender bosoms of the flowery meads,
Wailing his death who at Ilion's siege was slain!
Oh, let thy soul appeas'd with this remain,

That those thy tears pleads pity by their sight,
And more, the great bright pattern of the light

To quench his drought, carouses them again.
Cease then to weep, and leave me still to mourn ;

Complaining best becomes my mirthless state, Who in quenchless flames of luckless love does burn! Thy Memnon's loss requires no more regret.