SONNETS.

Lock up,
fair lids! the treasure of my heart,
Preserve those beams, this age's only light;
To her sweet sense, sweet sleep! some ease impart,
Her sense too weak to bear her spirit's might.
And while, O Sleep! thou closest up her sight-
Her sight, where Love did forge his fairest dart,
O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:
Let no strange dream make her fair body start.
But yet, O Dream! if thou wilt not depart,

In this rare subject, from thy common right,
But wilt thy self in such a seat delight;
Then take my shape, and play a lover's part:
Kiss her from me; and say, unto her sprite,
Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night!

SOUL'S Joy! bend not those morning stars from me,
Where Virtue is made strong by Beauty's might;
Where Love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight,
And humbleness grows on with majesty:
Whatever may ensue, O let me be
Copartner of the riches of that sight!

Let not mine eyes be hell-driv'n from that light.
O look! O shine! O let me die, and see!
For though I oft myself of them bemoan,
That through my heart their beamy darts be gone,
Whose cureless wounds, e'en now, most freshly bleed;

Yet since my death-wound is already got,
Dear Killer! spare not thy sweet cruel shot :
A kind of grace it is, to slay with speed!

SONNETS.

O KISS! which do'st those ruddy gems impart, Or gems or fruits of new found Paradise,

Breathing all bliss, and sweetness to the heart; Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise:

O kiss! which souls, ev'n souls together ties,
By links of Love, and only Nature's art :

Now fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes,
Or of thy gifts, at least, shade out some part!
But she forbids; with blushing words, she says,
She builds her fame on higher-seated praise.
But my heart burns, I cannot silent be!

Then since, dear Life! you fain would have me peace;
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease;
Stop you my mouth, with still, still kissing me.

O HAPPY Thames, that didst my STELLA bear! I saw thee, with full many a smiling line, Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear; While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat, for joy, could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine, Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison !) twine; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay Have made; but forc'd by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd: from window I, With sight thereof, cried out-O fair disgrace, Let honour's self to thee grant highest place!

SONNET.

Be your words made, good Sir! of Indian ware, That you allow me them by so small rate? Or do you courted Spartans imitate?

Or do you mean my tender ears to spare, That to my questions you so total are? When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state, You say, forsooth, you left her well of late :

O God! think you, that satisfies my care? I would know, whether she do sit or walk?

How cloth'd? How waited on? Sigh'd she, or smil'd? Whereof? with whom? how often did she talk? With what pastime, time's journey she beguil❜d? If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name? Say all, and all well said, still say the same.

MICHAEL DRAYTON,

1592.

The family of Drayton was originally settled in the town of Drayton in Leicestershire: but of the life of this distinguished poet few memorials are preserved. His birth is believed to have been at Harsall, Warwickshire, in 1563. While living, he enjoyed the friendship of many persons distinguished either for their rank or talents; and his name has been transmitted to posterity, with the highest moral reputation. Dying in 1631, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, among the poets; where the Countess of Dorset, who had given monuments to Spenser and Daniel, raised a handsome table of blue marble to his memory, adorned with his effigies laureated in busto, and enriched with an epitaph by Quarles, written in letters of gold, which is still legible. Having, in a preliminary sonnet, disclaimed any experience of the passion that he afterwards proceeds to describe, Drayton has been regarded as writing only with a view to ridicule the compositions of his contemporaries. There does not, however, appear sufficient reason so completely to disqualify his amatorial pretensions. He may not be less sincere, because less sentimental than others.

SONNETS.

LOVE, banish'd Heaven, on earth was held in scorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,
Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by:
I, like a man devout and charitable,

Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Guest;
With sighs and tears still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest.
But this Ungrateful, for my good desert,
Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart;
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.

Well, well my friends! when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel, then, though charity grow cold!

DEAR! Why should you command me to my rest,
When now the Night doth summon all to sleep?
Methinks, this time becometh lovers best;
Night was ordain'd together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things,
Which, though the day disjoin by several flight,
The quiet evening yet together brings;
And each returns unto his Love at night!
O, thou that art so courteous else to all,

Why should'st thou, Night! abuse me only thus ;
That ev'ry creature to his kind do'st call,
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?

Well could I wish it would be ever day,
If, when night comes, you bid me go away.