LADY MARY WROTH,

Daughter of Robert Earl of Leicester, (a younger brother of Sir P. Sidney), and wife of Sir Robert Wroth, is only remembered now as the distinguished female, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated the Alchemist; but, in her day, she enjoyed considerable reputation as authoress of the Urania, a romance interspersed with poetry, published in 1621.

SONG.

WHO can blame me, if I love?

Since Love before the world did move.

When I lov'd not, I despair'd,

Scarce for handsomeness I car'd;

Since so much I am refin'd,

As new fram'd of state and mind,

Who can blame me if I love,

Since Love before the world did move?

Some in truth of Love beguil'd,

Have him blind and childish stil'd;

But let none in these persist,

Since so judging judgment mist.

Who can blame me

?

Love in chaos did appear:

When nothing was, yet he seem'd clear: Nor when light could be descried,

To his crown a light was tied.

Who can blame me?

Love is truth, and doth delight,
Whereas Honour shines most bright:
Reason's self doth Love approve,

Which makes us ourselves to love.
Who can blame me?

Could I my past time begin,
I would not commit such sin,
To live an hour, and not to love;
Since Love makes us perfect prove.
Who can blame me?

SONG.

LOVE, a child, is ever crying;
Please him, and he straight is flying;

Give him, he the more is craving,

Never satisfied with having.

His desires have no measure;
Endless folly is his treasure;
What he promiseth he breaketh;
Trust not one word that he speaketh.

He vows nothing but false matter;
And to cozen you will flatter;

Let him gain the hand, he'll leave you,
And still glory to deceive you.

He will triumph in your wailing;
And yet cause be of your failing:
These his virtues are, and slighter
Are his gifts, his favours lighter.

Fathers are as firm in staying;
Wolves no fiercer in their preying:
As a child then, leave him crying;
Nor seek him so given to flying.

ANNE, COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL,

died 1630,

Was the sister of Thomas, last Lord Dacre, and married Philip, Earl of Arundel, who died in the Tower, 1595. The following verses, written by her on the cover of a letter, have been preserved by Mr. Lodge, (Illustr. of Brit. Hist. vol. iii.), who is of opinion that they were called forth by the death of her husband.

IN sad and ashy weeds I sigh,

I groan, I pine, I mourn;

My oaten yellow reeds I all

To jet and ebon turn.

My watery eyes, like winter's skies,

My furrow'd cheeks o'erflow:

All heavens know why, men mourn as I,
And who can blame my woe?

In sable robes of night my days
Of joy consumed be,

My sorrow sees no light; my lights

Through sorrow nothing see:

For now my sun his course hath run,

And from his sphere doth go

To endless bed of folded lead,

My flocks I now forsake, that so
My sheep my grief may know;
The lilies loth to take, that since
His death, presum'd to grow.
I envy air, because it dare

Still breathe, and he not so;

Hate earth, that doth entomb his youth, And who can blame my woe?

Not I, poor I alone-(alone

How can this sorrow be?)

Not only men make moan, but more
Than men make moan with me:

The gods of greens, the mountain queens,
The fairy circled row,

The Muses nine, and Powers divine,

Do all condole my woe.