TO THE LARK. AN ACROSTIC.

EARLY, cheerful, mounting lark,
Light's gentle usher, morning's clerk,
In merry notes delighting;
Stint awhile thy song, and hark,
And learn my new inditing.

Bear up this hymn, to heav'n it bear, E'en up to heav'n, and sing it there: To heav'n each morning bear it: Have it set to some sweet sphere, And let the angels hear it,

Renown'd Astræa, that great name,
Exceeding great in worth and fame,
Great worth hath so renown'd it,

It is Astræa's name I praise:

Now then, sweet lark, do thou it raise,

And in high heaven resound it.

HENRY WILLOBY,

Author of "Avisa, &c. 1594."

WHAT sudden chance or change is this,

That doth bereave my quiet rest? What surly cloud eclips'd my bliss ?

What sprite doth rage within my breast?

Such fainty qualms I never found,

Till first I saw this western ground.

My listless limbs do pine away,
Because my heart is dead within ;
All lively heat I feel decay,

And deadly cold his room doth win.
My humours all are out of frame,
I freeze amidst the burning flame.

I know the time, I know the place,

Both when and where my eye did view,

That novel shape, that friendly face,
That so doth make my heart to rue.

O happy time, if she incline!

If not, woe worth these luckless eyne!

I love the seat where she did sit,

I kiss the grass where she did tread; Methinks I see that face as yet,

And

eye,

that all these turmoils bred.

I envy, that this seat, this ground,
Such friendly grace and favour found.

I dreamt of late, (God grant that dream
Portend my good!) that she did meet
Me in this green, by yonder stream,

And, smiling, did me friendly greet. Whe'er wand'ring dreams be just or wrong, I mind to try ere it be long.

But yonder comes my faithful friend,
That like assaults hath often tried,

On his advice I will depend,

Whe'er I shall win or be denied. And look, what counsel he shall give,

That I will do, whe'er die or live.

I FIND it true, that some have said, "It's hard to love and to be wise;" For wit is oft by love betray'd,

And brought asleep by fond devise. Sith faith no favour can procure, My patience must my pain endure.

**

As faithful friendship mov'd my tongue, Your secret love and favour crave, And, as I never did you wrong,

This last request so let me have; Let no man know what I did move, Let no man know that I did love.

That will I say, this is the worst,
When this is said, then all is past:
Thou, proud Avisa, wert the first,

Thou, hard Avisa, art the last. Though thou in sorrow make me dwell, Yet love will make me wish thee well.

W. SMITH,

Author of "Chloris," 1596. Perhaps the dramatic writer of this name mentioned in the Biographia Dramatica, No particulars of his life are known.

SONNET II.

THY beauty, subject of my song I make,
O fairest fair, on whom depends my life,
Refuse not then the task I undertake,

To please thy rage, and to appcase my strife.
But with one smile remunerate my toil,

None other guerdon of thee I desire; Give not my lowly muse, new-hatch'd, the foil, But warmth, that she may at the length aspire Unto the temples of thy star-bright eyes,

Upon whose round orbs perfect beauty sits; From whence such glorious chrystal beams arise, As best my Chloris' seemly face befits: Which eyes, which beauty, which bright chrystal beam,

Which face of thine hath made my love extreme.