And in the horror of this fearful quire

Consists the music of this doleful place:

All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire, Where none but heavy notes have any grace.

Resort there is of none but pilgrim wights,

That pass with trembling foot and panting heart, With terror cast in cold and shuddering frights, And all the place to terror fram'd by art.

Yet Nature's work it is, of Art untouch'd;
So strait indeed, so vast unto the eye,
With such disorder'd order strangely couch'd,
And so with pleasing horror low and high,

That who it views, must needs remain aghast Much at the work; more at the maker's might; And muse how Nature such a plot could cast, Where nothing seemed wrong, yet nothing right.

A place for mated minds, and only bower,

Where every thing doth sooth a dumpish mood: Earth lies forlorn: the cloudy sky doth lour: The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud.

The struggling flood between the marble groans; Then, roaring, beats upon the craggy sides;

A little off, amidst the pebble stones,

With bubbling streams a purling noise it glides.

The pines, thick set, high grown, and ever green, Still clothe the place with shade and mourning

veil :

Here gaping cliffs, there moss-grown plain is seen :

Here hope doth spring, and there again doth quail.

Huge massy stones, that hang by tickle stay,

Still threaten foul, and seem to hang in fear: Some wither'd trees, asham'd of their decay,

Beset with green, and forc'd grey coats to wear.

Here chrystal springs, crept out of secret vein, Straight find some envious hole that hides their grain;

Here seared tufts lament the wants of grace,
There thunder-wrack gives terror to the place.

All pangs and heavy passions here may find
A thousand motives suitly to their griefs,
To feed the sorrows of their troubled mind,
And chase away dame Pleasure's vain reliefs.

To plaining thoughts the vale a rest may be,

To which from worldly toys they may retire,

Where sorrow springs from water, stone, and tree, every thing with mourners doth conspire.

Where

Sit here

my soul! mourn [streams' of] tears afloat, Here all thy sinful foils alone recount;

Of solemn tunes make thou the dolefull'st note,
That to thy ditties dolour may amount.

When Echo doth repeat thy painful cries,
Think that the very stones thy sins bewray,--
And now accuse thee with their sad replies
As heaven and earth shall in the latter day.

Let former faults be fuel of the fire,

For grief the limbeck of thy heart to still, Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire, And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will.

Let tears to tunes and pains to plaints be prest,
And let this be the burden to thy song ;-
"Come deep remorse! possess my sinful breast!
Delights adieu! I harbour'd you too long!"

Edit. 1620.

HUMFREY GIFFORD,

Of whom I know no more than that he was author of "A "Posie of Gilloflowers, eche differing from other in colour "and odour, yet all sweete," London, 1580, 4to. b. l. Imprinted for J. Perin. This very scarce volume contains prose translations from the Italian and French, and a collection of poems, devotional, moral, and narrative. Gifford wrote with great facility, as will appear from the following specimens.

Something made of Nothing, at a Gentlewoman's request.

YE gladly would have me to make you some toy,
And yet will not tell me whereof I should write :
The strangeness of this doth breed me annoy,
And makes me to seek what things to endite.

If I should write rashly what comes in my brain, It might be such matter as likes you not best: And rather I would great sorrow sustain

Than not to fulfil your lawful request.

Two dangers most doubtful oppress me alike,

Ne am I resolved to which I might yield;

Wherefore, by perforce, I am forced to seek
This slender device to serve for my shield.

Since nothing ye give me to busy my brain,

No thing but your nothing of me can ye crave. Wherefore now receive your nothing again;

Of nothing, but nothing, what else would ye have?

SONG.

A WOMAN's face is full of wiles,
Her tears are like the crocadill:
With outward cheer on thee she smiles,
When in her heart she thinks thee ill.

Her tongue still chats of this and that,
Than aspine leaf it wags more fast;
And as she talks she knows not what,
There issues many a truthless blast.

Thou far dost take thy mark amiss,

If thou think faith in them to find;
The weather-cock more constant is,
Which turns about with every wind.
VOL, II.
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