Some think to lose him,

Which is too unkind, And some do suppose him,

Poor heart, to be blind;

But if he were hidden,

Do the best you may,

Blind Love, if you so call him,

Will find out the way.

Well may the eagle

Stoop down to the fist,

Or you may inveigle

The Phoenix of the east ;

With fear the tiger's moved,

To give over their prey,

But never stop a lover,

He will find out the way.

From Dover to Berwick,

And nations thereabout,

Brave Guy, Earl of Warwick,

That champion so stout,

With his warlike behaviour,

Through the world he did stray,

To win his Phillis' favour,

Love will find out the way.

In order next enters

Bevis so brave,

After adventures

And policy brave,

To see whom he desired,

His Josian so gay,

For whom his heart was fired,

Love will find out the way.

Make use of your inventions,

Their fancies to betray, To frustrate their intentions,

Love will find out the way.

From court to the cottage,
In bower and in hall,

From the king unto the beggar
Love conquers all.

Though ne'er so stout and lordly,

Strive or do what you may,

Yet be you ne'er so hardy,

Love will find out the way.

Love hath power over princes,

And greatest emperors,

In any provinces,

Such is Love's power,

There is no resisting,

But him to obey;

In spite of all contesting,

Love will find out the way.

If that he were hidden,

And all men that are,

Were strictly forbidden

That place to declare;

Winds that have no abidings,

Pitying their delay,

Would come and bring him tidings, And direct him the way.

If the earth should part him,
He would gallop it o'er;

If the seas should o'erthwart him,

He would swim to the shore.

I I

Should his love become a swallow,

Through the air to stray,

Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.

There is no striving

To cross his intent,

There is no contriving

His plots to prevent;

But if once the message greet him,
That his true love doth stay,

If Death should come and meet him,
Love will find out the way.

THE HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME.

Written by Robert Herrick.

OME, sons of summer, by whose toile
We are the lords of wine and oile,
By whose tough labours and rough hands,

We rip up first, then reap our lands.

Crown'd with the eares of corne, now come,

And to the pipe sing harvest home.

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
with all the country art.

Drest up
See here a Maukin, there a sheet,
As spotlesse pure as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linnen white as lillies.
The harvest swaines and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, heare how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,

Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some blesse the cart, some kisse the sheaves,
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some crosse the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroak the home-borne wheat :
While other rusticks, lesse attent

To prayers then to merryment,
Run after with their breeches rent.

Well, on, brave boyes, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your feast, fat beefe: