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Do now thy heavenly cunning use

To set my heart at rest.

And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, .

Or when my sorrows end.

A QUARREL WITH LOVE.

[From his Melancholick Humours.] / On that I could write a story

Of love's dealing with affection! How he makes the spirit sorry

That is touch'd with his infection.

But he doth so closely wind him,

In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
That the heart can never find him

Till it be too much diseased.

Tis a subtle kind or spirit,

Of a venom-kind of nature,
That can, like a coney-ferret,

Creep un-wares upon a creature.

Never eye that can behold it,

Though it worketh first by seeing; Nor conceit that can unfold it,

Though in thoughts be all its being.

Oh! it maketh old men witty,

Young men wanton, women idle, While that patience weeps, for pity

Reason bite not nature's bridle.

What it is, in conjecture ;

Seeking much, but nothing finding ; Like to fancy's architecture,

With illusions reason blinding.

Yet, can beauty so retain it,

In the profit of her service, That she closely can maintain it

For her servant chief on office?

In her eye she chiefly breeds it;

In her cheeks she chiefly hides it; In her servant's faith she feeds it,

While his only heart abides it.

ON THE DEATH OF SPENSER.

Mournful Muses, sorrow's minions,
Dwelling in despair's opinions,
Ye, that never thought invented
How a heart may be contented
(But, in torments all distressed,
Hopeless how to be redressed,
All with howling, and with crying,
Live in a continual dying)

Sing a dirge on Spenser’s death,
Till your souls be out of breath.

Bid the dunces keep their dens,
And the poets break their pens;
Bid the shepherds shed their tears,
And the nymphs go tear their hairs ;
Bid the scholars leave their reading,
And prepare their hearts for bleeding;
Bid the valiant and the wise
Full of sorrows fill their eyes;

All for grief that he is gone
Who did grace tủem every one.

Farewel, art of poetry,
Scorning idle foolery ;

Farewel, true-conceited reason,
Where was never thought of treason;
Farewel judgment, with invention
To describe a heart's intention ;
Farewel wit, whose sound and sense
Shew a poet's excellence;

Farewel, all in one together,
And with Spenser's garland wither.

A sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress,

and Beauty.

Love and my mistress were at strife

Who had the greatest pow'r on me: Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!

Nay, what a death is this to be!

She said, she did it with her eye;

He said he did it with his dart; Betwixt them both (a silly wretch !)

'Tis I that have the wounded heart.

She said, she only spake the word

That did enchant my peering sense ;

He said, he only gave the sound

That enter'd heart without defence.

She said, her beauty was the mark

That did amaze the highest mind; He said, he only made the mist,

Whereby the senses grew so blind.

She said, that, only for her sake,

The best would venture life and limb: He said, she was too much deceiv'd;

They honour'd her, because of him.

Long while, alas, she would not yield,

But it was she that rul'd the roast; Until, by proof, she did confess,

If he were gone, her joy was lost.

And then she cried “ Oh, dainty love,

“ I now do find it is for thee, “ That I am lov'd and honour'd both,

“ And thou hast power to conquer me.”

But, when I heard her yield to love,

Oh! how my heart did leap for joy! That now I had some little hope

To have an end to mine annoy! VOL. II.

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