My mistrs waveringe mynd full well compare I might
unto her lookinge glasse for disposicion
Which can receve and represent all formes aright
and yet of none will fyrmely holde ympression
In one the shape is loste by turninge of the eyes
So oute of sighte with her, and out of mynd likewise

Restore agayne that colloure to the golde
that garnishte hath those haires like golden streames
And lett those eyes so heavenly to beholde
resign unto the Sonn their borrowed beames
And let those lyppes whose smyles so much delight
unto the corrall yeelde their lyvely hue
And let those rancks of pearles retorne of ryghte
unto the Oryente whereas first they grewe
And lett that snowe which shadoweth so her breste
dissolve it selfe and unto dropps distyll
And lett that mynde which honoreth all the reste
surcease to use Mynervas sacrede skill

How comes it, Sleep, that thou
Even kisses me affords
Of her, deare her, so far who's absent now?
How did I heare those words,
Which rocks might move, and move the pines to bow?
Aye me, before halfe day
Why didst thou steale away?
Returne, I thine for ever will remaine,
If thou wilt bring with thee that guest againe.

Trees happier far than I,
Which have the grace to heave your heads so high,
And over-look those plaines,
Grow till your branches kisse that lofty skie
Which her sweet selfe containes;
There make her know mine endlesse love and paines,
And how these teares which from mine eyes do fall,
Helpt you to rise so tall:
Tell her, as once I for her sake lov'd breath,
So for her sake I now court ling'ring death.

You that with awfull eyes and sad regards,
Gazing on masts of ships crost with their yards;
Or when yee see a microcosme to swim,
At ev'ry stroake the crucifixe doe limne
In your braine's table; or when smaller things,
As pyed butter-flyes, and birds their wings
Doe raise a crosse, streight on your knees doe fall
And worship; you, that evrye painted wall,
Grac't with some antik face, some godling make,
And practise whoordome for the crosse's sake
With bread, stone, mettall; read these sacred layes,
And, proselytes, proclaime the author's praise:

If under your fair looks so sweete in shewe
there be not hydd a harte more harde then steele
Yow cannot chuse but rue on me, to knowe
what gryefe by absence from your face I feele
And yet in yow how may such ruthe aryse
when to your sighte, in me appeares no paine
For when I come to see those happye Eyes
their gladesome looks doo me revyve againe
Unkindlye Care my fancye doth foregoe
the vapored sighes haunt not my pinede breste
No brackish teares my face doth overflowe
but am to see, as one that lyvede in reste

BY THE SAME .

O Black Remorse! fell tyrant of the soul!
Undying worm, that prey'st upon the mind
Of erring mortals; sad remembrancer
Of crimes untold and follies long conceal'd!
Yon guilty sinner, lo, how wild his looks!
Despair and madness rend his tortur'd heart,
Till, weary of life's sad and painful load,
He seeks a friendly shelter in the grave;
And, springing forward from the verge of life,
Shuts close the gates of death upon Remorse.
But, when the rash and guilty deed is done,

BY THE SAME .

Hail , heav'n-born Mercy, offspring of the skies,
With mild compassion beaming in thine eyes!
Sweet seraph, softer than the breath of spring,
How shall the muse thine ev'ry beauty sing!
Prostrate and pleasing, she beholds thee bend
At Heav'n's high throne, and hears thy pray'rs ascend.
The host of angels cease their charming song,
To lean and listen to thy moving tongue;
The sword of justice, at thy powerful call,
From her uplifted hand is seen to fall;

IN THE NINTH BOOK OF LUCAN .

What, Labienus! would thy fond desire
Of horned Jove's prophetick shrine inquire
Whether to seek in arms a glorious doom
Or basely live and be a king in Rome?
If life be nothing more than death's delay,
If impious Force can honest minds dismay,
Or Probity may Fortune's frown disdain,
If well to mean is all that Virtue can,
And right dependant on itself alone
Gains no addition from success — 'Tis known
Fix'd in my heart these constant truths I bear,
And Ammon cannot write them deeper there.

BY THE SAME .

I N a fair temple, by the virtues grac'd,
The throne of spotless Innocence was plac'd;
On which the radiant goddess sat serene,
A blooming beauty of a dove-like mien;
On her right hand sat Peace and Concord fair,
As seraphs beauteous, and as soft as air;
Close by her side, attir'd in robes of white,
Fair Candour sat, and look'd divinely bright;
So mild, yet so commanding, was her mien,
She seem'd at once an angel and a queen!
When Truth drew near, and, as she view'd the dame,