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Where conscience judgeth plainly,
They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth,

Not caring much for gold;.
With clothing, which sufficeth

To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet merry it is and quiet.

[At an annual Triumph, held in honour of Queen Elizabeth, Nov. 17, 1590, in the Tilt-yard, Westminster, the following verses were pronounced and sung by M. Hales, her Majesty's servant, a gentleman in that arte excellent, and for his voice both commendable and admirable. Segar's Honour, Civil and Military, c. 54.]

My golden locks time hath to silver turn’d,
(Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing)
My youth gainst age, and age at youth hath spurn'd,
But spurn’d in vain: youth waineth by increasing.
Beauty, and strength, and youth, flow'rs fading been,
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers' songs shall turn to holy psalms :

A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on pray’rs that are old age's alms,
And so from court to cottage I depart;
My saint is sure of my unspotted heart.

And when I sadly sit in homely cell, I'll teach my swains this carol for a song: “ Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, “ Curs’d be the souls that think to do her wrong." Goddess ! vouchsafe this aged man his right, To be your bondsman now, that was your knight.

THE PRAISE OF AMARGANA.

[From England's Helicon.]

The sun, the season, in each thing
Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring
Hath put to flight the winter keen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The paths where Amargana treads,
With flow'ry tapestries Flora spreads,
And nature clothes the ground in green,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The groves put on their rich array,
With hawthorn-blooms embroider'd gay,
And sweet-perfumed with eglantine,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The silent river stays his course,
Whilst, playing in the chrystal source,
The silver-scaled fish are seen
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The woods at her fair sight rejoice,
The little birds, with their loud voice,
In concert on the branches been,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
This feast and meeting bids us make,
Of shepherd lads, and lasses sheen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

And every swain his chance doth prove,
To win fair Armagana's love;
In sporting strifes, quite void of spleen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

All happiness let heav'n her lend,
And all the graces her attend;

Thus bid me pray the muses nine,
Long live our lovely summer queen.

W. H.

TITYRUS TO HIS FAIR PHILLIS.

[From England's Helicon.]
The silly swain, whose love breeds discontent,

Thinks death a trifle, life a loathsome thing;
. Sad he looks, sad he lies :
But when his fortune's malice doth relent,
Then of love's sweetness he will sweetly sing:

Thús he lives, thus he dies.

Then Tityrus, whom love hath happy made,
Will rest thrice happy in this myrtle shade:

For tho' love at first did grieve him,
Yet did love at last relieve him.

END OF Vol. II.

Printed by W. Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland-Row, St. James's.

VOL. II.

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