Part 26 (1/2)

No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O G.o.d! that I My life may mend, since I must die.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core.

May never was the month of love; For May is full of flowers: But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers.

With soothing words, inthralled souls She chains in servile bands!

Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain.

[1] 'Fine:' end.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coa.r.s.est web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.

Thus, with succeeding turns, G.o.d tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish.

Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

THOMAS WATSON.

He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His sonnets--one or two of which we subjoin--have considerable merit; but we agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.

THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday: For though this clime was blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before.

O beauteous queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight: O beauteous queen!