A DITTY.

[From Puttenham's Art of Poesy.]

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

LORD BROOK.

Fulk Greville, lord Brook, was born at Alcaster, in Warwick shire, A.D. 1554, and introduced very early to the court of Elizabeth, with whom he effectually ingratiated himself; and though, like all her favourites, he had often reason to complain of her political coquetry, and was disappointed by her caprice, in his projects of obtaining military distinction, he was rewarded by her, with many important and lucrative employments. He had also the address to acquire and preserve the favour of her successors, James and Charles, by the former of whom he was created lord Brook, in 1620. He was at last assassinated by one of his own retainers, Ralph Heywood, and died of the wound on the 30th of September,

1628.

Lord Brook, like his friend and relation Sir P. Sidney, was a liberal patron of literature; and his poetry, particularly his matchless Mustapha (as Bolton calls it), was much admired by his contemporaries.

I, WITH whose colours Myra drest her head,
I, that wore posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimnies read,

By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking,
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back my turn again to play?

I that on Sunday at the church-stile found

A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flow'rs, Which I to wear about mine arm was wont,

That each of us might know that all was ours, Must I now lead an idle life in wishes,

And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes, her eyes committed theft,

I, who did make her blush when I was named, Must I lose, ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked?

I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,

Like jealousy o'er-watched by desire, Was ever warned modesty to keep,

While her breath speaking kindled nature's fire, Must I look on a-cold while others warm them ? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?

SONG.

AWAY with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep,
In love of those that lye asleep;

For Cupid is a meadow god,

And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweet Cupid's shafts, like destiny,
Do causeless good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go.

What fools are they that have not known
That love likes no laws but his own.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holidays,

On
tree I write her name,
every
And every day I read the same:
Where honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

The worth that worthiness should move
Is love, that is the bow of love;
And love as well thee foster can

As can the mighty nobleman.

Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet, without love, nought worth to me!

THE DREAM.

My senses all, like beacon's flame,
Gave alarum to desire,

To take arms in Cynthia's name,
And set all my thoughts on fire.

Up I start, believing well

To see if Cynthia were awake; Wonders I saw, who can tell?

And thus unto myself I spake:

Sweet god, Cupid, where am I?!
That by pale Diana's light,
Such rich beauties do espy

As harm our senses with delight.