Yet are they never friends in deed, until they once

fall out :

Thus ended she her song, and said before she did

remove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.-Richard Edwards.

IV.

OF HIS MISTRESS WEEPING.

I SAW my Lady weep,

And Sorrow proud to be advanced so

In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe,

But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair,

And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare :
She made her sighs to sing,

And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

O fairer than aught else

The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:

Tears kill the heart, believe.

O strive not to be excellent in woe,

Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.

Anon.

V.

FIDELE.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak :
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have

And renowned be thy grave!-Shakespeare.

VI.

HIS LODESTAR.

LIKE as a ship, that through the Ocean wide, By conduct of some star, doth make her way; Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray!

So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,

Through hidden perils round about me plast;
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helice, the lodestar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief,
Till then I wander careful, comfortless,
In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

Edmund Spenser.

VII.

ALL IS VANITY.

WHETHER men do laugh or weep,

Whether they do wake or sleep,

Whether they die young or old,
Whether they feel heat or cold;
There is underneath the sun
Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest,
None are worst and none are best ;
Grief and joy and hope and fear
Play their pageants everywhere:
Vain Opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.

Powers above in clouds do sit,
Mocking our poor apish wit,
That so lamely with such state

Their high glory imitate.

No ill can be felt but pain,

And that happy men disdain.—Anon.

VIII.

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL.

HIGH upon Hielands
And low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell

Rade out on a day.
Saddled and bridled

And gallant rade he;
Hame came his gude horse
But never came he!

Out came his auld mither
Greeting full sair,

And out came his bonnie bride

Rivin' her hair.
Saddled and bridled

And booted rade he;
Toom hame came the saddle,
But never came he!

My meadow lies green,

And my corn is unshorn;

My barn is to bigg,

And my babie's unborn."
Saddled and bridled

And booted rade he;

Toom hame came the saddle,

But never came he!-Anon.

IX.

PAN'S SONG.

From Midas.

PAN'S Syrinx was a girl indeed, Though now she's turned into a reed.

From that dear reed Pan's pipe doth come,
A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;
Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can
So chant it, as the pipe of Pan.
Cross-gartered swains, and dairy girls,
With faces smug and round as pearls,
When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play,
With dancing wear out night and day;
The bag-pipe drone his hum lays by
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy.
His minstrelsy! O base! This quill
Which at my mouth with wind I fill
Puts me in mind though her I miss
That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss.—John Lyly.

X.

LOVING IS FOLLY.

IF fathers knew but how to leave
Their children wit as they do wealth,
And could constrain them to receive
That physic which brings perfect health,
The world would not admiring stand
A woman's face and woman's hand.

Women confess they must obey,

We men will needs be servants still; We kiss their hands, and what they say We must commend, be't ne'er so ill:

Thus we,

like fools, admiring stand

Her pretty foot and pretty hand.

We blame their pride, which we increase
By making mountains of a mouse ;