Looking more narrow, by the fire's flame He pierc'd the quick, and I began to start; A pleasing wound, but that it was too high; His shaft procur'd a sharp, yet sugar'd smart ; Away he flew for why, his wings were dry: But left the arrow sticking in my breast, That sore I griev'd, I welcom❜d such a guest. Philomela's Ode that she sung in her Arbour. SITTING by a river's side, That the mind in quiet brings. Others hold, there is no wealth With arms folded, and lips meeting, For by the breath the soul fleeteth, That such happy bliss doth bring, Who esteem your virgin's blisser No such quiet to the mind As true love, with kisses kind. But, if a kiss prove unchaste, Doron's Description of Samela. [From Greene's " Arcadia,” 1610, 4to.; also in“ England's Helicon."] LIKE to Diana in her summer-weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest die, Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, When as her brightness Neptune's fancies move, Shines fair Samela, Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams, Thus fair Samela 1 Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the shew of majesty ; Pallas in wit: all three, if you well view ROBERT SOUTHWELL, An English jesuit, was born in 1560, and executed at Tyburn in 1595. His poems, all of which are on moral or reli gious subjects, are far from deserving the neglect which they have experienced. It is remarkable, that the few copies of his works which are now known to exist, are the remnant of at least twenty-four different editions, of which eleven were printed between 1593 and 1600. The best account of this writer is to be found in the Gentleman's, Magazine, for November, 1798. Times go by turns. THE lopped tree in time may grow again, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;. Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: |