Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour;
That boldness innocence bears in her eyes;
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tried,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

L'

IKE as a huntsman after weary chace,

Seeing the game from him escaped away, Sits down to rest him in some shady place, With panting hounds beguiled of their prey; So after long pursuit and vain assay, When I all weary had the chace forsook, The gentle deer returned the self-same way, Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook; There she beholding me with milder look, Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, Till I in hand her yet half trembling took, And with her own good will her firmly tied; Strange thing meseemed to see a beast so wild So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.

MOST glorious Lord of life, that on this day

Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win;

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,

And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live for ever in felicity:

And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

LIKE as a ship, that through the ocean wide,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way,
Whenas a storm hath dimm'd her trusty guide
Out of her course doth wander far astray;
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me plast:
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helice, the lodestar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander careful, comfortless,
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.

[SIR PHILIP SIDNEY was born at Penshurst, in Kent, in 1554. He was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, who became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in the reign of Elizabeth. After he had been educated at Oxford and Cambridge, he went on the Continent; and, while at Paris, was treated with the greatest distinction by the French king. But, horrified at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, as soon as the danger was over, he left that capital, where he had resided with the English Ambassador, and resumed his travels, in the course of which he distinguished himself, on various occa

sions, by his martial prowess. When he returned to England, he received several important appointments from the Queen. He was named as a candidate for the Crown of Poland, but the Queen refused her consent to his being elected, "lest she should lose the jewel of her times." He was sent by her to the Netherlands, to the relief of the Protestants, and there gained the battle of Zutphen in 1586; but the advantage was dearly purchased by the death of the gallant victor. His life was one scene of

As he was borne from the

romance, from its commencement to its close. field fainting with loss of blood, he saw a dying soldier look wistfully at a bottle of water he was putting to his lips, and resigned it to him instantly, saying. This man's necessity is greater than mine." He was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral.

Sidney's poems are, to us, cold and affected, except when he follows his own natural sentiments.]

WITH

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 languish'd grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

CON

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

OME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
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

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 thine heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

A DITTY.

MY true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one to the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his because in me it bides:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

MUNDUS QUALIS.

BY JOSHUA SYLVESTER, 1563-1618.

[JOSHUA SYLVESTER was known in his time as the "silver-tongued Sylvester;" was born in England and died in Holland. He translated into English verse Dr. Bartas's "Divine Weeks," and wrote amongst other pieces a satire directed against the use of tobacco, entitled "Tobacco battered and the Pipe shattered."]

WHAT

HAT is the world? tell, worldling, if thou know it.
If it be good, why do all ills o'erflow it?

If it be bad, why dost thou like it so?