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[From Alison's Hour's Recreation in Musick,"


In hope a king doth go to war,

In hope, a lover lives full long;
In hope, a merchant sails full far,

In hope, just men do suffer wrong:
In hope, the ploughman sows his seed :
Thus hope helps thousands at their need:
Then faint not, heart, among the rest,
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.

Though wit bids will to blow retreat,

Will cannot work as wit could wish.
When that the roach doth taste the bait,

Too late to warn the hungry fish.
When cities burn on fiery flame,
Great rivers scarce may quench the same :
If will and fancy be agreed,
Too late for wit to bid take heed,

[From Wilbye's Second set of Madrigales," 1609.]

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart;
For those may fail, or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever;
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,

And love me still, but know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever.

[From the same.)

Draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares

That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares,

That unto thee I consecrate it wholly,

Sweet night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from

paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold,

I then shall have best time for my complaining. [From the same.]

So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,

When she revisits Cyprus' hallow'd bowers, Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,

Can draw her chariot ʼmidst the Paphian flowers. Lightness to love how ill it fitteth, So heavy on my heart she sitteth.

(From the same.]

HAPPY, oh happy he, who not affecting

The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind repos’d, all discontents rejecting,

In silent peace his way to heaven prepares ! Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.

Hymen's Eclogue between Admetus and Menalchas.

(From “ A new Spring, shadowed in sundry pithie Poems,"

printed by G. Eld, for Thomas Bailie, 1619. 4to. By Musophilus.]

Menalchas. What makes Admetus sad i-Whate'er it be, Some cause there is that thus hath alter'd thee! Is it the loss of substance? or of friends ? Or, thy content in discontentment ends ? Is it some scruple in thy conscience, Which, unresolved, doth leave thee in suspence? Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love shouldst leese! Admet. No, no Menalchas, it is none of these ! Men. Thou art not sick ? Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well. Men. Where lies thy grief? Admet. My countenance can tell ! Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy count'nance fresh

enough! Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind

as rough, Men. Of cares, Admetus ? Admet. Yes! I have


share ! Men. Yet, hope of cure ! Admet. No hope of cure to care !

Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth

wring. Admet. Thou err'st Menalchas, there is no such

thing. Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth, Want to enjoy thy love, nor want of health, If neither discontent, nor grief, do show Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow, If thou be free, as we all know thee free, Engaged to none,—what is it grieveth thee? Admet. Wouldst know Menalchas ? Men. Yes! Admet. I'll tell thee then: The case is alter'd! I'm a married man!


[From the same.) [This is inserted on account of the singularity of its versi

fication.] A TIME there was, and divers there be yet Whose riper years can well remember it, When folks were shriven for sins they did commit, And had their absolution, as was fit: ’Mongst which, as one crime doth another get, Where hope of pardon doth authorize it,

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