Thine eyes, like flames of holy fires,—
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?—
Burn all my thoughts with sweet desires;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

All thy beauties sting my heart ;-
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?—
I must die through Cupid's dart;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

Wilt thou let thy Venus die?
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?-
Adon were unkind, say I,-
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

To let fair Venus die for woe,—
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?—
That doth love sweet Adon so;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
Noserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

FRANCESCO'S ROUNDELAY.

SITTING and sighing in my secret muse,
As once Apollo did, surprised with love,
Noting the slippery ways young years do use,
What fond affects the prime of youth do move;

With bitter tears, despairing I do cry,

Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!

When wanton age, the blossoms of my time, Drew me to gaze upon the gorgeous sight, That beauty, pompous in her highest prime, Presents to tangle men with sweet delight, Then with despairing tears my thoughts do cry, Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye! When I surveyed the riches of her looks, Whereout flew flames of never-quenched desire, Wherein lay baits that Venus snares with hooks, Or where proud Cupid sat all armed with fire; Then touched with love my inward soul did cry, Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye! The milk-white galaxia of her brow,

Where love doth dance lavoltas of his skill, Like to the temple where true lovers vow To follow what shall please their mistress' will; Noting her ivory front, now do I cry,

Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!

Her face, like silver Luna in her shine,

All tainted through with bright vermilion strains, Like lilies dipt in Bacchus' choicest wine, Powdered and interseamed with azured veins; Delighting in their pride, now may I cry, Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye! The golden wires that checker in the day Inferior to the tresses of her hair,

Her amber trammels did my heart dismay, That when I looked I durst not over-dare; Proud of her pride, now am I forced to cry Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye! These fading beauties drew me on to sin, Nature's great riches framed my bitter ruth; These were the traps that love did snare me in, Oh, these, and none but these, have wrecked my youth!

Misled by them, I may despairing cry,

Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!

F

By these I slipped from virtue's holy track, That leads unto the highest crystal sphere; By these I fell to vanity and wrack,

And as a man forlorn with sin and fear, Despair and sorrow doth constrain me cry, Wo worth the faults and follies of mine eye!

THE PENITENT PALMER'Ss ode.

WHILOM in the winter's rage,

A palmer old and full of age,

Sat and thought upon his youth,
With eyes' tears, and heart's ruth;
Being all with cares y-blent,
When he thought on years mispent.
When his follies came to mind,
How fond love had made him blind,
And wrapped him in a field of woes,
Shadowed with pleasure's shows,
Then he sighed, and said, 'Alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!

I thought my mistress' hairs were gold
And in their locks my heart I fold;
Her amber tresses were the sight
That wrapped me in vain delight:
Her ivory front, her pretty chin,
Were stales that drew me on to sin:
Her starry looks, her crystal eyes,
Brighter than the sun's arise,
Sparkling pleasing flames of fire,
Yoked my thoughts and my desire,
That I 'gan cry ere I blin,

O, her eyes are paths to sin!

Her face was fair, her breath was sweet,
All her looks for love were meet;

But love is folly, this I know,

And beauty fadeth like to snow.

O, why should man delight in pride,
Whose blossom like a dew doth glide!
When these supposes touched my thought,
That world was vain and beauty nought,
I 'gan sigh, and say, alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!'

ISABEL'S SONNET

THAT SHE MADE IN PRISON.

No storm so sharp to rent the little reed,

For sild it breaks though every way it bend;
The fire may heat but not consume the flint;
The gold in furnace purer is indeed;
Report, that sild to honour is a friend,
May many lies against true meaning mint,
But yet at last

'Gainst slander's blast

Truth doth the silly sackless soul defend.
Though false reproach seeks honour to distain,
And envy bites the bud though ne'er so pure;
Though lust doth seek to blemish chaste desire,
Yet truth that brooks not falsehood's slanderous stain,
Nor can the spite of envy's wrath endure,
Will try true love from lust in justice' fire,
And, maugre all,

Will free from thrall

The guiltless soul that keeps his footing sure.
Where innocence triumpheth in her prime,
And guilt cannot approach the honest mind;
Where chaste intent is free from any miss,
Though envy strive, yet searching time
With piercing insight will the truth outfind,
And make discovery who the guilty is;

For time still tries

The truth from lies,

And God makes open what the world doth blind.

FRANCESCO'S SONNET,

MADE IN THE PRIME OF HIS PENANCE.

WITH sweating brows I long have ploughed the

sands;

My seed was youth, my crop was endless care;
Repent hath sent me home with empty hands
At last, to tell how rife our follies are;

And time hath left experience to approve
The gain is grief to those that traffic love.
The silent thoughts of my repentant years
That fill my head have called me home at last;
Now love unmasked a wanton wretch appears,
Begot by guileful thought with over haste;

In prime of youth a rose, in age a weed,
That for a minute's joy pays endless need.
Dead to delights, a foe to fond conceit,
Allied to wit by want and sorrow bought,
Farewell, fond youth, long fostered in deceit;
Forgive me, time, disguised in idle thought;
And, love, adieu; lo, hasting to mine end,
I find no time too late for to amend!

FRANCESCO'S SONNET,

CALLED HIS PARTING BLOW.

EASON, that long in prison of my will

ᎡᎬ.

Hast wept thy mistress' wants and loss of time,

Thy wonted siege of honour safely climb,

To thee I yield as guilty of mine ill.

Lo, fettered in their tears, mine eyes are pressed
To pay due homage to their native guide:
My wretched heart wounded with bad betide
To crave his peace from reason is addressed.