XVII.

In studie onlie tyme to spende,

Knowledge aye to increase;
No envious cares gan them offende,
Ne sought they worldlie prayse.

XVIII.

Among which blessyde people good,
Wyth heavenlie harp in hande;
Sweet Orpheus, lo! that glee-man stood,
Trew musycke thear he scan'd.

In

XIX.

tyme and tune, with notes aye new,
JEHOVA's prayse he sange;

So did the reste, with reason due,

Whearof the whole earth range.

XX.

"Of tyme well-spent," said Syr TYME then To ev'ry one by name,

"Receave you shall, you mortal men,

Then stretcht he out his golden plumes
Forthwith to take his flight;
Both wynd and weather he consumes,
And soon fades out of sight.

XXII.

Where I, and manie a mazede man,

Remayneth styll in place,

To see hereafter, yf we can,

And veiw TYME's golden face.

By the Viscount Rocheford.'

(MS. dated 1564.)

I.

My lewt, awake! performe the laste
Labour that thow and I shall waste,

And ende that I have nowe begunne;
For, when this songe is sunge and past,
My lewt be still, for I have done.

II.

As to be heard wheare eare is none;
As lead to grave in marble stone;
My songe may pearce her heart as sone:
Shuld we then sighe, or singe, or mone?
No, no, my lewte, for I have done.

III.

The rocks do not so cruellye
Repulsse the waves contynually,
As she my sute and a'ffection:
So that I am past remedie;

Whearbye my lute and I have done.

"The unfortunate brother of Anne Boleyn; raised by her greatness, and involved in her fall." See Catalogue of Noble Authors: in the additions to which, after commending this poem for its simplicity, harmony, and elegance, Lord Orford proceeds to show, that with some little alteration it might pass for the production of a more refined age. Those readers who coincide in his Lordship's critical opinion, will not be likely to think his modernised performance much improved.

IV.

Vengeance shall fall on thie disdayne,
That makest but game on earnest payne;
Thinck not alone vnder the sonne
Unquyte to cause thie lovers playne,
Althoughe my lute and I have done.

Perchaunce they lye withered and olde,
The winter nightes that are so colde,
Playninge in vayne unto the moone;
Thie wishes then dare not be tolde;
Care then whoe liste, for I have done.

VI.

And then may chaunce thee to repent
The tyme that thow hast lost and spent,

To cawse thie lovers sighe and swone:
Then shalt thow know bewtie but lent,
And wishe and want as I have done.

VII.

Now cease, my lewte! this is the last
Labour that thow and I shall waste,

And endid is that we begunne;

Now is this songe both sunge and past,--
My lewte be still, for I have done!

:

Thys verse was made in 1567, on a moste stonie hearted mayden, who did sorelie beguyle a noble knyghte, my true friende, and who did much grieve thereon, even to his deathe on which dire myshappe she starvede her, and kepte hidden from every eye, till her owne deathe fell out some little space of tyme from the good knyghtes lamentable end.

O maydens! prove more kynde;
Who starve their love may starving finde.

J. H. MS.

I.

WHY didst thou raise such woeful wayle,
And waste in briny tears thyne dayes;
Cause shee, that wont to flout and rayl,
At last gave proof of woman's waies?—
Shee did, in soothe, display the hearte
That mought have wroughte thee greater smarte.

II.

Why thanke her then, not weepe or mone,
Let others guarde their careless hearte,
And praise the day that thus made knowne
The faithless hold on woman's art;
Their lipps can gloze and gain such roote,
That gentle youthe hathe hope of fruite:

III.

But, ere the blossom faire dothe rise

To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste,
Creepeth disdayn in, canker-wise,

And chilling scorne the fruit dothe blaste:
There is no hope of all our toyl,

There is no fruite from suche a soil.

IV.

Give o'er thy playnt, the danger's o'er,
Shee might have poyson'd all thyne lyfe;
Such wayward mynde had bred thee more
Of sorrowe, had shee prov'd thy wife.
Leave her to meet all hopeless meed,
And bless thyself that so art freed.

V.

No youthe shall sue such one to winne,
Unmark'd by all the shyning fair,
Save for her pride and scorn, such sinne
As heart of love can never bear:
Like leafless plant in blasted shade,
So lyveth shee-a barren mayde.

Psalmes putt into verse by Sir John Harington.

PSAL. 24.

THIS earth is God's, with men and all their goods

That dwellers are in earthlie habitations,

Hee founded it on seas and in the floods,

The building firme, yet fleeting the foundations;