If with a frown

I am cast down,
Phillis smiling
And beguiling,

Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find

Nothing can her fancy fix,
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks;
Which though I see,

I can't get free;

She deceiving,

I believing,

What need lovers wish for more?

- SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

5.

THE LOVER TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, awake! perform the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste;
And end that I have now begun :
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute! be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none;
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon;
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ?
No, no, my lute! for I have done.

The rock doth not so cruelly,
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection:
So that I am past remedy;
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game of earnest pain;
Trow not alone under the sun

Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights, that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told:
Care then who list, for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want, as I have done.

Now cease, my lute! This is the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste;

And ended is that we begun :

Now is thy song both sung and past;
My lute, be still, for I have done.

- SIR THOMAS WYATT.

6.

THE LOVER TO HIS LYRE.

AWAKE, awake my Lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail,—
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be,

Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake;

And though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply:

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye!

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound —

And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove,

My passion to remove :

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my

humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie:

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die!

ABRAHAM Cowley.

7.

THE LOVER'S APPEAL.

AND wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay! for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among:
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,

That hath given thee my heart

Never for to depart

Neither for pain nor smart:
And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity

Of him that loveth thee?

Alas! thy cruelty!

And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say nay! say nay!

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

8.

A LOST LOVE.

THE tide is high, and stormy beams.
Of sunlight scud across the down:
Above, the cloudy squadrons frown;
On their broad front a rainbow gleams.

Cease, boisterous wind. The west is gray
With glory-coated mists, that swell
From distant seas, and gathering tell
Of coming storm and darkened day.

Leave the dank clouds to droop, and guide
Toward their fair port yon sleeping sails:
Close-furled they wait the wakening gales;
Shower-sprinkled shines the pennon wide.

Sail seaward, stately ships, and view
Some blesséd isle where love is bred.
Bring me again my love that's dead
And all I have I'll give to you.

-JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.