Yet some there be that take delight,

To judge folks' thought for envy and spite; But whether they judge me wrong or right, I am as I am, and so do I write.

Praying you all that this do read,
To trust it as you do your creed;
And not to think I change my weed,
For I am as I am, however I speed.

But how that is I leave to you;
Judge as ye list, false or true,

Ye know no more than afore ye knew,
Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue.

And from this mind I will not flee,
But to you all that misjudge me,
I do protest, as ye may see,
That I am as I am, and so will be.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

SONNET.

HAVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance

Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship ad

vance;

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

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast:
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd:
My feeble pulse forgot to play-
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

ASK ME No More.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the

sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But, oh too fond, when have I answer'd thee?

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye; Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;

Ask me no more.

Think Nature me a man of arms did make.

How far they shot awry! the true cause is

seal'd.

I strove against the stream, and all in

vain.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone,

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shun'st the prize so sore
As that thou set'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

If in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,

Another do pretend a part,
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,

And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,.
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,

And famous by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.

PART SECOND.

My dear and only love, take heed,

Lest thou thyself expose, And let all longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those.

A marble wall then build about, Beset without a door;

But if thou let thy heart fly out, I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,
Make any breach at all;

Nor smoothness of their language plot
Which way to scale the wall;
Nor balls of wild-fire love consume
The shrine which I adore;
For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise;

Those victuall'd by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee rulèd in that health
And state thou wast before;
But if thou turn a commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

Or if by fraud, or by consent,

Thy heart to ruine come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,

Nor march by tuck of drum;
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up,

Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did,
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,
But to a hill retire,

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor;
But smiling sing, until I die,

I'll never love thee more.

Yet, for the love I bare thee once, Lest that thy name should die, A monument of marble-stone

The truth shall testifie: That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be

Upon this pillar hung,

A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue; Let no man for more love pretend Than he has hearts in store; True love begun shall never end;

Love one and love no more.

Then shall thy heart be set by mine,
But in far different case;

But mine was true, so was not thine,
But lookt like Janus' face.

For as the waves with every wind,
So sail'st thou every shore,

And leav'st my constant heart behind,-
How can I love thee more?

My heart shall with the sun be fix'd For constancy most strange,

As doth the turtle, chaste and true.
Her fellow's death regrete,
And daily mourns for his adieu,
And ne'er renews her mate;
So, though thy faith was never fast,
Which grieves me wondrous sore,
Yet I shall live in love so chast,
That I shall love no more.

And when all gallants ride about
These monuments to view,
Whereon is written, in and out,

Thou traitorous and untrue;
Then in a passion they shall pause,
And thus say, sighing sore,
"Alas! he had too just a cause,

Never to love thee more."

And when that tracing goddess Fame
From east to west shall flee,
She shall record it to thy shame,

How thou hast loved me:
And how in odds our love was such
As few have been before:
Thou loved too many, and I too much,
So I can love no more.

JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of Montrose.

CH, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN!

OH, had we some bright little isle of our own,

In a blue summer ocean, far off and

alone,

Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,

Delighting aye in change.

Thy beauty shined at first more bright,

And woe is me therefore,

That ever I found thy love so light
I could love thee no more!

The misty mountains, smoking lakes,
The rocks' resounding echo,
The whistling wind that murmur makes
Shall with me sing hey ho!
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats,
Tears dropping from each shore,
Shall tune with me their turtle notes-
I'll never love thee more.

year of flowers;

Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day.

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,

Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,

We should love as they loved in the first golden time;

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee!

(From the Greek.) BEN JONSON.

AT SETTING DAY AND RISING MORN.

AT setting day and rising morn,

With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit aft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood shaw or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share

With thee upon yon mountain; There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts unfeign'd and tender, By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

SONG OF MARGARET.

AY, I saw her, we have met;-
Married eyes, how sweet they be!
Are you happier, Margaret,

Than you might have been with me? Silence! make no more ado!

Did she think I should forget? Matters nothing, though I knew, Margaret, Margaret.

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,

Told a certain thing to mine; What they told me I put by,

Oh, so careless of the sign. Such an easy thing to take,

And I did not want it then; Fool! I wish my heart would break; Scorn is hard on hearts of men.