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Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,

Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight,
How can we thee requite for all this good?
Or what can prize that thy most precious blood?
Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love,
But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine:
Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove?
Had he required life for us againe,

Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with gaine ?
He gave us life, he it restored lost;

Then life were least, that us so little cost.

But he our life hath left unto us free,

Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band;
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee,
As he himselfe hath loved us afore-hand,
And bound thereto with an eternall band,
Him first to love that was so dearly bought,
And next our brethren, to his image wrought.
With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind,
Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace ;
All other loves, with which the world doth blind
Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base,
Thou must renounce and utterly displace,
And give thy selfe unto Him full and free,
That full and freely gave himselfe to thee.
Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest,
And ravisht with devouring great desire
Of his dear selfe, that shall thy feeble brest
Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire
With burning zeale, through every part entire,
That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight,
But in his sweet and amiable sight.

Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee dye,
And all Earthe's glorie, on which men do gaze,
Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye,
Compared to that celestiall beautie's blaze,
Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze
With admiration of their passing light,
Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright.
Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee

With heavenly thoughts, farre above humane skill,

And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see
The idee of his pure glorie present still

Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill
With sweete enragement of celestiall love,
Kindled through sight of those faire things above.

Sir Philip Sidney.

Born 1554.

Killed 1586.

SIDNEY is known both for his prose and poetical writings. He was born at Penshurst in Kent of noble parentage, his father being Sir Henry Sidney, and his mother a daughter of the Duke of Northumberland. When a boy, his genius attracted general notice; and when he was presented at court, his fascinating manners and commanding figure speedily won the favour of Queen Elizabeth, who conferred on him the honour of knighthood. So much did he become necessary to her, that she used her influence to prevent him from being elected King of Poland. Sidney afterwards commanded in a battle before the walls of Zutphen in Gueldres, where he was mortally wounded, and died at the early age of thirtytwo. It is related of him that as he was borne from the field faint from loss of blood, he asked for water; but just as the bottle was put to his lips he saw a dying soldier looking wistfully at it, and resigned it, saying, "Thy necessity is greater than mine."

SONNETS.

WITH how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes'
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of wo,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease

D

Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease:

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.

And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well, that I obtained the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance ;
Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear!
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravished, staid not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine :
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay
Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display.
She, so dishevelled, blushed. From window I,
With sight thereof, cried out: "O fair disgrace;
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place."

Robert Southwell.

{

Born 1560.

Exec. 1595.

AN English Jesuit.

A victim to the persecuting laws of that period, he wrote some poems in prison, which were very popular at the time. The following piece, Ben Jonson says, is so written that he could destroy many of his own.

THE BURNING BABE.

As I in hoary winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat,
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright,
Did in the air appear;

Who, scorched with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,

As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were bred.

"Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born,

In fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts

Or feel my fire, but I ;

My faultless breast the furnace is,

The fuel, wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shames and scorns;

The fuel justice layeth on,

And mercy blows the coals

The metal in this furnace wrought

Are men's defiled souls:

For which, as now on fire I am,

To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood :"
With this he vanished out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto mind

That it was Christmas Day.

Christopher Marlowe.

Born 1564.

Killed 1593.

ONE of the greatest of the dramatists contemporary with Shakespeare, he was born at Canterbury on 26th February 1564. His father was a shoemaker, but some kind friends enabled him to attend the King's school in Canterbury, where he received a good education. From thence he proceeded to Cambridge, where he took his degree of A.M. While at Cambridge he wrote his first play "Tamburlaine," which at once became a great favourite. "Faustus," his second play, abounds in passages of thrilling power. In his very short career he occupied a position in the public eye equal to Shakespeare. His power of depicting the terrible: is unsurpassed'; and that highest attribute of genius, originality, was possessed by him in the greatest degree. Shakespeare has founded many of his finest pieces on the suggestions of Marlowe. But Marlowe's great promise was cut short by his being killed in a discreditable brawl in the twenty-ninth year of his age.

FAUSTUS.

FAUSTUS alone.-The Clock strikes Eleven.
Faust. Oh, Faustus,

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day! or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul.

O lente lente currite, noctis equi.

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.
Oh, I will leap to heaven: who pulls me down?
See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament:
One drop of blood will save me: Oh, my Christ,
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ.
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer.
Where is it now? 'tis gone!

And see a threat'ning arm and angry brow.
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven.
No? then I will headlong run into the earth:
Gape earth. Oh no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence have allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist

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