Praised be that force, by which she moves the floods;
Let that Diana shine which all these gives.

In heaven queen she is among the spheres;
She mistress-like makes all things to be pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears;

She beauty is; by her the fair endure.

Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is placed;

By her the virtues of the stars down slide;
In her is virtue's perfect image cast.

A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
With Circes let them dwell that think not so.
[S. W. R.] IGNOTO.

XXVII.

THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF

LOVE.1

(Before 1600.)

Melibaus.

HEPHERD, what's love, I pray thee

tell?

Fau. It is that fountain and that

well

Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is perhaps that sauncing bell

In "England's Helicon," 1600, with the first signature obliterated, as in No. xxvi., and ascribed to "S. W. Rawly" in F. Davison's list, Harl. MS. 280, fol. 99.

It is

That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is love as I heard tell.
Meli. Yet what is love, I prithee say?
Fau. It is a work on holiday;

It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods, in fresh array,

Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is love as I hear say.

Meli. Yet what is love, good shepherd, sain?
Fau. It is a sunshine mixed with rain ;
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;

It is a game where none doth gain;
The lass saith no, and would full fain;
And this is love, as I hear sain.

Meli. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?
Fau. It is a yea, it is a nay,

A pretty kind of sporting fray;

It is a thing will soon away;

Then, nymphs, take 'vantage while ye may;
And this is love, as I hear say.

Meli. Yet what is love, good shepherd, show?
Fau. A thing that creeps; it cannot go ;
A prize that passeth to and fro;

A thing for one, a thing for moe;

And he that proves shall find it so ;
And, shepherd, this is love, I trow.
[S. W. R.] IGNOTO.

anonymous in Davison's "Poetical Rhapsody," 1602, &c., as "The Anatomy of Love," with no distinction of dialogue, and the first line running, "Now what is love, I pray thee tell?" An imperfect copy of the first and last stanzas form "the third song" in T. Heywood's "Rape of Lucrece," 1608, &c.

XXVIII.

AS YOU CAME FROM THE
HOLY LAND.1

S you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,

Met

you not with my true love By the way as you came?

How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one,

As I went to the holy land,

That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,

Such an angelic face,

Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,
By her gate, by her grace.

MS. Rawl. 85, fol. 124; signed as infra, and hence claimed for Raleigh by Dr. Bliss, Wood's "A. O.," vol. ii., p. 248, and inserted in the Oxford edition of Raleigh's "Works," vol. viii. p. 733, with the title "False Love and True Love." There is an anonymous copy in Percy's MS., vol. iii., p. 465, ed. Furnivall: and it is also in Deloney's "Garland of Goodwill," p. 111, Percy Society reprint.

She hath left me here all alone,

All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself, And me loved as her own.

What's the cause that she leaves you alone,

And a new way doth take,
Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make?

I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.

Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy;

He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.

Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,

Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.

SR. W. R.

G

XXIX.

A POEM BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH,1

HALL I, like an hermit, dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,

To bestow it, where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold,
If a stranger may be bold
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hand as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she seem not chaste to me,

What care I how chaste she be?

1 "London Magazine," August, 1734, p. 444, entitled as above. Mentioned on that authority only, by Oldys and (apparently) Ritson, and appended to Raleigh's "Life" by Cayley.

1