As from a tree we sundry times espy

A twissell' grow by nature's subtle might,
And, being two, for-cause they grow so nigh,

For one are ta’en, and so appear in sight:
So was the nymph and noory join'd y-fere,
As two no more, but one self thing they were.

O! where is now become that blessed lake

Wherein those two did bathe to both their joy! How might we do, or such provision make,

To have the hap as had the maiden-boy?
To alter form and shape of either kind,
And yet in proof of both a share to find ?

Then should our limbs with lovely link be tied,

And hearts of hate no taste sustain at all : But both, for aye, in perfect league abide,

And each to other live as friendly thrall : That the one might feel the plagues the other had, And partner be of ought that made him glad.

I would not strive, I would not stir a whit,

(As did Cyllenus' son, that stately wight),

· Double fruit.

• Together.

But, well content to be hermaphrodite,

Would cling as close to thee as e'er I might: And laugh to think my hap so good to be, As in such sort fast to be link'd to thee.

The assured promise of a constant Lover.
When Phænix shall have many makes,'
And fishes shun the silver lakes;
When wolves and lambs y-fere shall play,
And Phæbus cease to shine by day;
When grass on marble stone shall grow,
And every man embrace his foe;
When moles shall leave to dig the ground,
And hares accord with hateful hound;
When Pan shall pass Apollo's skill,
And fools of fancies have their fill;
When hawks shall dread the silly fowl,
And men esteem the nightish owl ;*
When pearl shall be of little price,
And golden virtue friend to vice;
When fortune hath no change in store,
Then will I false, and not before.
"Till all these monsters come to pass,
I am Timetus, as I was.

» Mates.

My love, as long as life shall last,
Not forcing any fortune's blast;
No threat, no thraldom shall prevail
To cause my faith one jot to fail;
But, as I was, so will I be,
A lover, and a friend to thee,

SIR EDWARD DYER,

A poet whose lot has been rather singular. His name is generally coupled with that of Sir Philip Sidney, and of the most fashionable writers of the age; and yet Bolton, though almost a contemporary critic, professes “ not to “ have seen much of his poetry." Though a knight, in a reign when knighthood was nobility, the time of his birth

is unknown. Of six pieces, preserved in England's Helicon, only half of one, appeared worth transcribing, as a specimen of his style.

TO PHILLIS THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS.

My Phillis hath the morning sun,

At first to look upon her ;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds,

Her risings still to honour.

My Phillis hath prime-feather'd Aow'rs,

That smile when she treads on them; And Phillis hath a gallant flock,

That leaps since she doth own them.

But Phillis hath too hard a heart;

Alas that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert,

Nor grace to those that crave it!