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;

We praise because we know we please ;
Poor women are too credulous

To think that we admiring stand

Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.—Anon.

XI.

TO PHILLIS

THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS.

My Phillis hath the morning Sun,
At first to look upon her:
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds,
Her rising still to honour.

My Phillis hath prime feathered flowers,
That smile when she treads on them:

And Phillis hath a gallant flock

That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath too hard a heart,

Alas, that she should have it!

It yields no mercy to desert

Nor grace to those that crave it. Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan! Sweet birds, when you sing to her To yield some pity woo her! Sweet flowers that she treads on,

Tell her, her beauty dreads one.

And if in life her love she nill agree me,

Pray her before I die, she will come see me.

Sir Edward Dyer.

XII.

THE POTENCY OF A WOMAN.

THOSE eyes that set my fancy on a fire,

Those crisped hairs that hold my heart in chains,

Those dainty hands which conquered my desire, That wit which of my thoughts doth hold the reins:

Then, Love, be judge, what heart may therewith stand

Such eyes, such head, such wit, and such a hand? Those eyes for clearness doth the stars surpass,

Those hairs obscure the brightness of the sun, Those hands more white than ever ivory was, That wit even to the skies hath glory won. O eyes that pierce our hearts without remorse! O hairs of right that wear a royal crown! O hands that conquer more than Cæsar's force! O wit that turns huge kingdoms upside down! Anon.

XIII.

THE CRUELTY OF TIME.

LIKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.