An Epitaph upon Poet Spenser.

[In the same.]

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,
your souls be out of breath!

Till

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 to bleeding;
Bid the valiant and the wise
Full of sorrows fill their eyes;
All for grief that he is gone
Who did grace them every one!

Farewell, art of poetry,

Scorning idle foolery!

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

Farewell, all in one together,

And with Spenser's garland wither!

A sweet contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty.

[In the "Bowre of Delights, 1597."]

LOVE and my Mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power 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 of mine annoy!

For though that Fancy Beauty found A power all too pitiless,

Yet Love would never have the heart To leave his servant comfortless.

But as too soon before the field

The trumpets sound the overthrow, So all too soon I joy'd too much, For I awak'd, and nothing so.

THOMAS LODGE,

Descended from a family of his name in Lincolnshire, was 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. He wrote a play, called "Promos and Cassandra," and various poems, many of which have considerable merit. Their titles may be seen in Ritson's Bibliographia. The first two of the following specimens are from the "Pleasant Historie of Glaucus and Scilla, &c." 1610. He died in 1625.

[Extract from a Poem in commendation of a solitary Life.]

SWEET solitary life, thou true repose,

Wherein the wise contemplate heaven 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.

VOL. II.

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