Right fo my mind, caught by his guiding eye,

And thence caft off, where his fweet hurt he found, Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor fuffer'd to be found. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high conceits, whofe fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall, O happy Dove, if fhe no bondage ty'd! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!

E. D.* *.

1

I.

.

Prometheus, when first from heav'n high

He brought down fire, till then on earth not feen; Fond of delight, a fatyr standing by,

Gave it a kifs, as it like fweet had been.

Feeling forthwith the other burning power,

Wood with the smart, with fhouts and fhrieking fhrill

He fought his ease in river, field, and bower
But for the time his grief went with him still.

So filly I, with that unwonted fight,

In human shape, an angel from above,
Feeding mine eyes, the impreffion there did light;
That fince I run and reft as pleaseth love,

The difference is, the fatyr's lips, my heart,
He for a while, I evermore have smart..

*This Piece, Mr. Wood informs us, was wrote by Sir Edward Dyer, Chancellor of the most Noble Order of the Garter. See Athen. Oxon. Vol. 1. p. 14.

II.

A Satyr once did run away for dread,

With found of horn, which he himself did blow:
Fearing and fear'd, thus from himself he fled;
Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.

Such causeless fears, when coward minds do take,
It makes them fly that which they fain would have:
As this poor beast, who did his reft forfake,
Thinking not why, but how, himself to fave.

Ev'n thus might I, for doubts which I conceive
Of mine own words, my own good hap betray;
And thus might I for fear of may-be, leave
The sweet purfuit of my defired prey.
Better like I thy Satyr, deareft dyer,
Who burnt his lips to kifs fair fhining fire.

MY miftrefs lowers, and faith, I do not love:
I do proteft, and feek with fervice due,

In humble mind, a conftant faith to prove;
But for all this, I cannot her remove

From deep vain thought, that I may not be true.

If others might ferve, ev'n by the Stygian lake, Which poets fay, the gods themselves do fear; I never did my vowed word for fake:

For why should I, whom free choice flave doth make, Elfe-what in face than in my fancy bear?

My

My mufe, therefore, (for only thou canst tell)
Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe?
Tell, how ill thought disgrac'd my doing well?
Tell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell
To fo low ebb that wonted were to flow?

O this it is, the knotted straw is found; In tender hearts, fmall things ingender hate: 'A horfe's worth laid waste the Trojan ground: A three-foot ftool in Greece made trumpets found: An Afs's fhade e'er now hath bred debate.

If Greeks themselves were mov'd with fo fmall caufe, To twist these broils, which hardly would untwine: Should ladies fair be ty'd to fuch hard laws,.

As in their moods to take a ling'ring pause? I would it not, their metal is too fine.

My hand doth not bear witness with my heart, She faith, because I make no woefullays,

To paint my living death, and endlefs fmart: And fo for one that felt god Cupid's dart, She thinks I lead and live too merry days.

Are poets then the only lovers true, Whofe hearts are fet on meafuring a verfe?

Who think themselves well bleft, if they renew Some good old dump that Chaucer's mistress knew ; And use but you for matters to rehearse.

Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow:

Take harp and fing in this our verfing time:

And in my brain fome facred humour flow:

That all the earth my woes, fighs, tears may knew ; And fee you not that I fall now to rhime.

As

As for my mirth, how could I but be glad, Whilft that me thought I justly made my boast, That only I the only Mistress had?

But now, if e'er my face with joy be clad, Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage loft.

Sweet Lady, as for those whofe fullen chear, Compar'd to me, made me in lightness found: Who, ftoick-like, in cloudy hue appear: Who filence force to make their words more dear: Whofe eyes feem chafte, because they look on ground:

Believe them not, for Phyfick true doth find,

Choler aduft is joy'd in woman-kind.

菠菠菠

IN wonted walks, fince wonted fancies change,
Some cause there is, which of ftrange caufe doth rife:
For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range;
Part of my pain, me-feems, ingraved lies,

The rocks, which were of conftant mind the mark,
In climbing fteep, now hard refusal show :
The fhading woods feem now my fun to dark,
And stately hills difdain to look fo low.

The reftful caves now reflefs vifions give; In dales I fee each way a hard ascent :

Like late mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas! Sweet brooks do in my tears augment :

Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, anfwer me;

Infected minds infect each thing they fee.

IF

F I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking ftill,my thoughts might have good end; If rebel fense would reafon's law receive;

Or reafon foil'd, would not in vain contend :
Then might I think what thoughts were beft to think:
Then might I wifely fwim, or gladly fink,

If either you would change your cruel heart,
Or cruel (ftill) time did your beauties ftain:
If from my foul this love would once depart,
Or for my love fome love I might obtain ;
Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind,
By your good help, or in my felf to find.

But fince my thoughts in thinking still are spent,
With reafon's ftrife, by fenfes overthrown ;
You fairer ftill, and ftill more cruel bent,

I loving still a love that loveth none:

I yield and ftrive, I kifs and curfe the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain,

A FARE