ULYSSES

Faire nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then I would come and rest with thee,
And leave such toiles as these:
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seek it forth;
To spend the time luxuriousl
Becomes not men of worth.

SYREN

Ulysses, O be not deceiv'd
With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others' fame.
Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile
(The best thing of our life) our rest,
And give us up to toyle!

ULYSSES

Delicious nymph, suppose there were
Nor honor, nor report,

Yet manlinesse would scorne to weare
The time in idle sport:

For toyle doth give a better touch

To make us feele our joy;

And ease findes tediousnes, as much
As labour yeelds annoy.

SYREN

Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore, Whereto tendes all your toyle;

Which you forego to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversly,

Find never tedious day;

And ease may have variety,
As well as action may.

ULYSSES

But natures of the noblest frame
These toyles and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease:

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:

When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To shew that it was ill.

SYREN

That doth opinion only cause,
That's out of custom bred;
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever nature did.

No widdowes waile for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

ULYSSES

But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire
Seem borne to turne them best:

To purge

the mischiefes, that increase

And all good order mar:

For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well chang'd for war.

SYREN

Well, well, Ulysses, then I see

I shall not have thee here;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.

I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne :
For beauty hath created bin
T'undoo or be undone.

X. CUPID'S PASTIME

This beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I. is printed from the fourth edition of Davison's Poems,1 &c. 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, intitled, "Le Prince d'Amour," 1660, 8vo. Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state, who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen of Scots.

1 See the full title in Series II. Book iii. No. 4.

These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi." Among them are found some pieces by Sir J. Davis, the Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, and other wits of those times.

In the fourth vol. of Dryden's Miscellanies, this poem is attributed to Sydney Godolphin, Esq.; but erroneously, being probably written before he was born. One edit. of Davison's book was published in 1608. Godolphin was born in 1610, and died in 1642-3. Ath. Ox. ii. 23.

Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep,
Within a thicket on a plain

Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspread her face;
Her careless arms abroad were cast;
Her quiver had her pillows place;

Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do; nought durst he say;
Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy that sees her sleep,
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see;
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by:
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.
Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain:

Yet up again forthwith he start,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain :
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,

And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy; the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast
Love found an entry to her heart:

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!
She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may :
What other lovers do, did they :

The god of love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.

XI. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eton in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, intitled, "Reliquiæ Wottonianæ,” 1651, 12m0.; compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;

Not ty'd unto the world with care
Of princes ear, or vulgar breath:

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great :

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,
Or vice who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertaines the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

XII. GILDEROY

Gilderoy was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richlieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority than the records of Grub-street: at least the Gilderoy, who is the hero of Scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii. 1733, 8vo., is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Queen of Scots: ex. gr.

The Queen of Scots possessed nought,

That my love let me want:
For cow and ew to me he brought,

And ein whan they were scant.

These lines perhaps might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that appears to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruninghook.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,

Had roses tull his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune :