Others hold, there is no wealth That such happy bliss doth bring, Who esteem your virgin's blisses No such quiet to the mind As true love, with kisses kind. But, if a kiss prove unchaste, No love is sweet but honesty! SAMELA. LIKE to Diana in her summer-weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest die, Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, Is fair Samela. As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, When as her brightness Neptune's fancies move, Shines fair Samela. Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Of fair Samela; Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams, Her brows' bright arches fram'd of ebony; Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her brightest hue, And Juno in the shew of majesty; For she's Samela; Pallas in wit: all three, if well you view For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity, Yield to Samela. ROBERT SOUTHWELL Was born in 1560, and executed in 1595. His poems, all of which are on moral or religious subjects, are far from deserving the neglect which they have experienced. It is remarkable, that the very few copies of his works which are now known to exist, are the remnant of at least seventeen different editions, of which eleven were printed between 1593 and 1600. The best account of this writer is to be found in the Gentleman's Magazine, for November, 1798. SCORN NOT THE LEAST. WHERE words are weak, and foes encountering strong, Where mightier do assault than do defend, The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, And silent sees, that speech could not amend. Yet, higher powers must think, though they repine, When sun is set, the little stars will shine. The merlin cannot ever soar on high, Nor greedy grey-hound still pursue the chace: The tender lark will find a time to fly, And fearful hare to run a quiet race: He that high growth, on cedars did bestow, In Haman's pomp the poor Mardochius wept, We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May, TIMES GO BY TURNS. THE lopped tree in time may grow again, The dryest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend, |