It is the mind that maketh good or ill,

That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor ; For some that hath abundance, at his will,"

Hath not enough, but wants in greater store;

And other, that hath little, asks no more, But in that little is both rich and wise;

For wisdom is most riches ;8 fools therefore They are whicho fortune do by vows devise, 10 Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize."

And is there care in Heaven ? And is there love

In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move?

There is :-else much more wretched were the case Of men than beast : But, O! th’exceeding grace

Of Highest God—that loves His creatures so,
And all His works with

mercy doth embrace,
That blessed Angels He sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked men, to serve His wicked foe!
How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want!

How oft do they with golden pinions cleave

The flitting skies, like flying Poursuivants, Against foul fiends to aid us, militant !5

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, And their bright Squadrons round about us plant ;

And all for love, and nothing for reward : O, why should Heavenly God to men have such regard ?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.-Born, 1554; Died, 1586. Famous as the ideal of an accomplished scholar, a man of genius, a brave soldier, a noble gentleman, and one of the most generous of

He was killed at the skirmish of Zutphen, in Holland, at the age of 32, and was buried with great pomp in Old St. Paul's. Besides some poems, he wrote a prose romance, called “ Arcadia.”

men.

SLEEP.

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COME, Sleep, 0 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 press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars4 to cease :
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

3 Aitting skies, the skies that seem

to fly away from behind them

as they glide so swiftly. 4 poursuivants, a royal messenger, lit.

attendant on the Heralds. 5 by fighting for us. I knot of peace, that wh'ch knits or binds peace to us.

с

? baiting-place of wit. Our

Wearied wit or intellect refreshes itself in sleep, as the body does

by food. Bait is from bite. 3 shield of proof, which can turn

off the darts of despair. 4 wars between opposing principles

in himself

an

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.

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3

4

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JOHN LYLY.—Born, 1551. Died, 1600. Lyly was born in Kent, and attended both Universities. He is chiefly known for having invented a bombastię style of writing, which was known as Euphuism, and is ridiculed by Shakspeare. There is nothing of it in the following exquisite lines, however.

CUPID AND CAMPASPÉ.
Cupid and my Campaspéplayed
At cards for kisses : Cupid paid.
He staked his quiver, bow,

and

arrows;
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too: then, down he throws
The coral of his lip—the rose
Growing on 's cheek, but, none knows how,
With these, the crystal on his brow,
And, then, the dimple of his chin!
All these did my Campaspé win:
At last, he set her both his eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise; 5
O Love, hath she done this to thee?

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DR. THOS. LODGE.—Born, 1556; Died, 1625 He was from Lincoln, and was educated at Oxford; practised as a physician in London, and died of the plague, in 1625. He wrote several plays, and translated Josephus.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

Love, in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet :
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet:
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amid my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah, wanton, will ye !

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight;
And makes his pillow of my knee

The live-long night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,

He music plays if but I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting;

Ah! wanton, will ye!

Else I with roses, every day,

Will whip you hence,
And bind ye, when ye long to play,

For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it, for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin,
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my kneo,

And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid, so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.—Born, 1502: Died, 1593. A dramatic writer of high promise. He was an M.A. of Cambridge, and immediately preceded Shakspeare as an author. He died at the age of thirty-one, in a disgraceful quarrel. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
Woods, or the steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.?

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