Oh, pity have, when such poor orphans beg,
Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back,
And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,

Yet maim'd he is, sith he his sight doth lack. And yet though blind he Beauty can behold, And yet, though naked, he feels more heat than cold.

SONNET.

Ir ever Sorrow spoke from soul that loves,
As speaks a spirit in a man possess❜d,
In me her spirit speaks, my soul it moves,
Whose sigh-swoln words breed whirlwinds in my
breast:

Or like the echo of a passing bell,

Which, sounding on the water, seems to howl,

So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell,
And keeps all night in consort with the owl.
My cheek with a thin ice of tears is clad,

Mine eyes, like morning stars, are blear❜d and red, What resteth then but I be raging mad,

To see that she, my care's chief conduit-head, When all streams else help quench my burning heart,

Shuts up her springs, and will no grace impart.

SONNET.

I BEING Care, thou fliest me' as ill fortune,
Care, the consuming canker of the mind;
The discord that disorders sweet heart's tune,

Th' abortive bastard of a coward mind:
The light foot lackey that runs post by death,
Bearing the letters which contain our end:
The busy advocate that sells his breath,

Denouncing worst to him is most his friend. O dear! this Care no interest holds in me; But holy Care, the guardian of thy fair, Thine honour's champion, and thy virtue's fee, The zeal which thee from barbarous times shall

bear:

This Care am I; this care my life hath taken,

Dear to my soul! then leave me not forsaken!

THOMAS WATSON.

A Londoner born, says Wood, who spent some time in the university of Oxford, not in the pursuits of logic or philosophy, but in the smooth and pleasant studies of poetry and romance. Afterwards retiring to the metropolis, he became a student of the common law, and appears from collateral testimony to have died about 1592. For an account of the writings of this author, whom an eminent critic and commentator (with what degree of justice, may be doubted) has pronounced to be a more elegant sonneteer than Shakspeare, the reader is referred to the Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. LXVIII. p. 669.

SONNET.

[From his "Hecatompathia, or Passionate Centurie of Love," no date, but licensed in the Stationers' books 1581.]

WHEN May is in his prime, and youthful Spring Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground

with flowers,

And time of year reviveth every thing,

And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lours; Then Philomela most doth strain her breast,

With night-complaints, and sits in little rest.

This bird's estate I may compare with mine,

To whom fond love doth work such wrongs by day, That in the night my heart must needs repine,

And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may, Whilst others are becalm'd, or lie them still, Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will.

And as all those which hear this bird complain Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight, Without remorse, or pitying her pain;

So she, for whom I wail both day and night, Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint, A just reward for serving such a saint!

SONNET.

IN Thetis' lap while Titan took his rest,
I slumbering lay within my restless bed,
Till Morpheus us'd a falsed sorry jest,

Presenting her by whom I still am led,
For then I thought she came to end my wo,
But when I wak'd, alas! 'twas nothing so!

Embracing air instead of my delight,

I blamed Love, as author of the guile;

Who, with a second sleep clos'd up my sight,
And said (methought) that I must bide awhile
Ixion's pains, whose arms did oft embrace
False darken'd clouds instead of Juno's grace.

When I had lain and slumber'd thus a while,
Ruing the doleful doom that Love assign'd,
A woman-saint, which bare an angel's face,

Bade me awake, and ease my troubled mind: With that I wak'd, forgetting what was pass'd, And saw 'twas Hope which helped t us at last.

SONNET.

In time the bull is brought to wear the yoke,
In time all haggard hawks will stoop the lures;
In time small wedge will cleave the sturdiest oak,

In time the marble wears with weakest showers: More fierce is my sweet love, more hard withal, Than beast or bird, than tree or stony wall.

No yoke prevails she will not yield to might;

No lure will cause her stoop, she bears full gorge; No wedge of woes makes print, she recks no right,

No shower of tears can move, she thinks I forge: