English

From your fayre eyes the kendlynge sparks were sent
that first did set my fancye on a fyere
before which tyme I knewe nott what itt ment
to burne in love and languishe in desier
But daylie nowe as in your face I see
those graces growe, that maks you more to shine
soo daylie doth new flames aryse in mee
and more and more, Consume this brest off myne
Now are they growen so farr into extreames
that greater rage, with lyefe I may not taste
then doo you nott encrease, in beawties Beames
Excepte you woolde my lymmes to Syndars waste

BY Maria F ALCONAR .

M ANSIONS of woe, where silent horror reigns,
And pensive desolation ever dwells;
Where the sad captive groans beneath his chains,
The hapless tenant of these gloomy cells!

And here the wretch, whom justice dooms to die,
Who sees no friendly ray of comfort near,
Lost to himself and every former joy,
With sad reflection drops the bitter tear!

BY THE SAME .

Soft god of sleep, attend my prayer,
Nor let me sink the prey of care;
Grant but one slumber to my woes,
For one short hour these eyelids close;
'Tis thou canst ease the prisoner's grief,
'Tis thou that giv'st to guilt relief.
But, ah! in vain I seek thine aid,
Where love's sad cares my peace invade;
In vain I sigh the hours away,
And loath in vain returning day;
Soon as the dawn salutes my sight,
I sigh, and wish again for night.

Some will commend and prayse their mistres crisped hayre
others the comely shape the sweete and modest grace
and some will moste allowe the beawtye freshe and faire
others agayne the pleasinge favoure off the face
But theis and all such lyke, as flowers shall fade awaye
when this our age shall stoope and quayle with tract of tyme
yett shall not then my mistresse glorye so decaye
but florishe all as much as in her youthfull pryme
Not that I meane therby her feature so shall shyne
as now it doth to stayne and blemish all the reste

Alle avait, sous sa toque d' martre,
Sur la butt' Montmartre,
Un p'tit air innocent;
On l'app'lait Rose, alle etait belle,
A sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
Ru' Saint-Vincent.

On n'avait pas connu son pere,
A n'avait pus d' mere,
Et depuis mil neuf cent
A d'meurait chez sa vieille aieule
O u qu'a s'el'vait, comm' ça, tout' seule,
Ru' Saint-Vincent.

A travaillait, deja, pour vivre,
Et les soirs de givre,
Sous l' froid noir et glaçant,
Son p'tit fichu sur les epaules,

Along this shore, the most skilful fisherman at catching the labrus, the skarus, the greedy perch, and the fish living in rocky caves at the bottom of the sea, was Parmis, son of Kallignotos. One day as he took in his first catch he died of a mortal affliction. The rainbow-fish, slipping from his hands, sank beneath the waves with quivering throat; but Parmis, expiring, fell back upon the ground among his rods and lines, and his destiny was fulfilled. Gripon, a fellow-fisherman, raised this mound over the dead man.

Rise from those fragrant climes thee now embrace,
Vnto this world of ours O haste thy race,
Faire sunne, and though contrary-wayes all yeare
Thou hold thy course, now with the highest spheare
Ioyne thy swift wheeles, to hasten time that lowres,
And lazie minutes turne in perfect houres;
The night and death too long a league haue made,
To stow the world in horror's vgly shade.
Shake from thy lockes a day with saffron rayes,
So faire, that it out-shine all other dayes;
And yet doe not presume, great eye of light,

Diophantes, the fisherman, dedicates these implements of a long-plied trade to the God: a curved fish-hook; some long harpoons; a horsehair fishing-line; these creels; a fish-basket to be kept under water, an invention of sea-roving fishermen; a rough trident, the weapon of Poseidon; and these two pairs of oars from his boat.

Life to giue life depriued is of life,
And death displai'd hath ensigne against death;
So violent the rigour was of death,
That nought could daunt it but the life of life:
No power had pow'r to thrall life's pow'r to death,
But willingly life hath abandon'd life,
Loue gaue the wound which wrought this work of death,
His bow and shafts were of the tree of life.
Now quakes the author of eternall death,
To finde that they whom earst he reft of life,
Shall fill his roome aboue the listes of death;

BY THE SAME .

Hail , scenes of life, more lovely than the spring,
 More beauteous than the dawn of summer's day,
More gay and artless than the birds that sing
 Their tuneful sonnets on the leafy spray!

Adieu, ye paths, adorn'd with springing flowers,
 Oh! could those vernal sweets again be given,
When guardian-angels watch'd my guiltless hours,
 And strove to guide my erring steps to heaven.

So the first pair in Paradise were blest,
 Perpetual pleasures open'd to the view;