Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum❜d,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

[From "Masques at Court."]

BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy,

Called Love! a little boy

Almost naked, wanton, blind,

Cruel now, and then as kind ?

If he be amongst ye, say!
He is Venus' run-away.

She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish:
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kiss, and another.

He hath of marks about him plenty,

You shall know him among twenty: All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame intire,

That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

At his sight the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip:
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part.
And if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts, where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother,

Still the fairest are his fuel.

When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,

And his baths their warmest blood:

Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet:

All his practice is deceit,

Every gift it is a bait :

Not a kiss but poison bears,

And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him,
Since ye hear his falser play,

And that he's Venus' run-away.

UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.

The Lover, deceived by his Lady's inconstancy, writeth unto her as followeth.

[From "A Gorgious Gallery of gallant Inventions," 1578, 4to.]

THE mist is gone that blear❜d mine eyes,
The lowering clouds I see appear;
Though that the blind eat many flies,

I would you knew my sight is clear.
Your sweet, deceiving, flattering face,

Did make me think that you were white;
I muse how you had such a grace
To seem a hawk, and be a kite.

Where precious ware is to be sold,

They shall it have that giveth most.
All things we see are won with gold;
Few things is had where is no cost:
And so it fareth now by me.

Because I press to give no gifts,
She takes my suit unthankfully,

And drives me off with

many

drifts.

Is this the end of all my suit,

For my good will to have a scorn?
Is this of all my pains the fruit,

To have the chaff instead of corn?
Let them that list possess such dross ;
For I deserve a better gain:

Yet had I rather leave with loss,

Than serve and sue, and all in yain.

The following piece was extracted from an extremely scarce miscellany called "A Handful of Pleasant Delites, con"taining sundrie new sonets and delectable histories in "divers kinds of meeter, &c. &c. by Clement Robinson "and divers others." London, printed by Richard Jhones, &c. 1584, 12mo.

The tune appears to have acquired an extraordinary degree of

popularity in the time of Shakspeare, (see Merry Wives of Windsor, Act ii. Sc. 1, and Act v. Sc. 5,) and the ballad contains some particulars respecting female dress and manners, during the sixteenth century, which may appear curious to the poetical antiquary.

A new courtly Sonet, of the Lady Greensleeves, to the new tune of " Greensleeves.”

GREENSLEEVES was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my hart of gold,

And who but Lady Greensleeves.