But, as too soon, before the field,
The trumpets sound the overthrow,
So all too soon I joy'd too much,
For I awaked, and nothing so.

THOMAS LODGE;

Born, probably, about 1556, and entered of Trinity College, Oxford, in 1574. Though much admired for his classical learning, and poetical talents, he wisely embraced the more useful profession of physic. This he studied at Avignon, obtained a diploma, returned to England; and, partly by his skill, and partly by the favour of the Roman Catholics, to whose persuasion he was attached, soon rose into notice, and obtained considerable practice. wrote a play, called "Promos and Cassandra," and various poems, many of which have considerable merit. The two first of the following specimens are from the "Plea"sant Historie of Glaucus and Scilla, &c." 1610. He died in 1625.

He

EXTRACT.

[From a Poem in commendation of a solitary Life.]

SWEET solitary life, thou true repose,

Wherein the wise contemplate heav'n aright; In thee no dread of war or worldly foes ;

In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight; In thee no wanton ears, to win with words, Nor lurking toys, which city-life affords.

At peep of day, when, in her crimson pride,
The morn bespread with roses all the way,
Where Phoebus' coach, with radiant course, must
glide,

The hermit bends his humble knees to pray: Blessing that God, whose bounty did bestow Such beauties on the earthly things below.

Whether, with solace tripping on the trees,
He sees the citizens of forest sport;
Or, midst the wither'd oak, beholds the bees
Intend their labour with a kind consort;
Down drop his tears, to think how they agree,
While men alone with hate inflamed be.

Taste he the fruits that spring from Tellus' womb,
Or drink he of the chrystal spring that flows,
He thanks his God; and sighs their cursed doom
That fondly wealth in surfeiting bestows:
And, with St. Jerome, saith, "the desart is
"A paradise of solace, joy, and bliss."

Father of Light! thou Maker of the Heav'n! From whom my being-well, and being, springs, Bring to effect this, my desired steaven,

That I may leave the thought of worldly things! Then, in my troubles, will I bless the time My muse vouchsafed me such a lucky rhyme.

THE earth, late choak'd with showers,

Is now array'd in green;

Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen,

The heavens laugh at her glory;
Yet bide I sad and sorry!

The woods are deck'd with leaves,
And trees are clothed gay,
And Flora, crown'd with sheaves,
With oaken boughs doth play;

Where I am clad in black,

The token of my wrack.

Do sing with pleasant voices; And chant, in their degrees,

Their loves and lucky choices; When I, whilst they are singing, With sighs my arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have:

They free, I thrall: they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.

[From "the Phenix Nest."]

Now I find thy looks were feign'd, Quickly lost, and quickly gain'd; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart unstable, light as feathers; Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted, Wanton will, with change delighted; Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason

Of thine

eyes I made my mirror; From thy beauty came mine error: 'All thy words I counted witty,

All thy smiles I deemed pity;
Thy false tears, that me aggrieved,
First of all my heart deceived;

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feign'd acceptance, when I ask'd, Lovely words, with cunning mask’d,