Your privy winks at board I see,
And how you set your roving mind;
Your self you cannot hide from me,
Although I wink I am not blind.

The secret sighs, and feigned cheer,
That oft doth pain thy carefull breast,
To me right plainly do appear;

I see in whom thy heart doth rest.

And though thou mak'st a feigned vow,
That love no more thy heart should nip,

Yet think, I know as well as thou,

The fickle helm doth steer the ship.

Thy love, which once I honoured most; If he be wise, he may well guess

Thy love soon won will soon be lost.

Therefore, leave off thy wonted play,

Since as thou art thou wilt appear, Unless thou canst devise a way

To dark the sun that shines so clear.

And keep thy friend that thou hast won,
In truth to him thy love supply,

Lest he at length, as I have done,
Take off thy bells and let thee fly.".

"A Warning for Woers.

"Ye loving worms, come learn of me
The plagues to leave that linked be,
The grudge, the grief, the great annoy,
The fickle faith, the fading joy;

In time take heed;

In fruitless soil sow not thy seed ;
Buy not with cost

The thing that yields but labour lost.

If Cupid's dart do chance to light,
So that affection dims thy sight,
Then raise up reason by and by,
With skill thy heart to fortify:

Where is a breach,

Oft times too late doth come the leach:

Sparks are put out,

When furnace flames do rage about.

Where Cupid's fort hath made a way,
There grave advice doth bear no sway;
Where Love doth reign and rule the roast,
There reason is exil'd the coast;

Except ye use discretion:

Like all, love none,

First try, then trust,

Be not deceiv'd with sinful lust.

Some love for wealth, and some for hue,
And none of both these loves are true;
For when the mill hath lost her sails,

Then must the miller lose his vails:

Of grass comes hay,

And flowers fair will soon decay:

Of ripe comes rotten,

In age all beauty is forgotten.

Some love too high and some too low,
And of them both great griefs do grow:
And some do love the common sòrt,
And common folk use common sport.

Look not too high,

Lest that a chip fall in thine eye:

Ye

But high or low,

may be sure she is a shrew.

But, sirs, I use to tell no tales,

Each fish that swims doth not bear scales;

In every hedge I find not thorns,

Nor every beast doth carry horns :

I say not so,

That every woman causeth woe.

That were too broad:

Who loves not venom must shun the toad.

Who useth still the truth to tell,

May blamed be, though he say well;
Say crow is white, and snow is black,

Lay not the fault on woman's back:
Thousands were good,
But few 'scap'd drowning in Noe's flood:
Most are well bent;

I must say so, lest I be shent."

T. P.

ART. XXV. The Phoenix Nest. Built up with the most rare and refined workes of Noblemen, worthy Knights, gallant Gentlemen, Masters of Arts, and brave Schollers. Full of varietie, excellent invention, and singular delight. Never before this time published. Set foorth by R. S. of the Inner Temple, Gentleman. Imprinted at London, by John Jackson. 1593. 4to.

R. S. was surmised by Warton* to be RICHARD STAPYLTON. The other apparent contributors to

Hist. of E. P. iii. 402.

this collection were Edw. Vere, Earl of Oxford, Sir Wm. Herbert, Dr. Lodge, Watson the Sonnetteer, Mathew Roydon, George Peele, Nicholas Breton, and Wm. Smith. The following short specimens, without signature, are creditable to the taste of the compiler, and to the poetical attainments of the age in which he lived. The orthography having been divested of its antiquarianism, leaves the verse not far behind our modern standard, to the eye and ear of a modern reader.

The time when first I fell in love,
Which now I must lament;

The

year wherein I lost such time

To compass my content:

The day wherein I saw too late

The follies of a lover;

The hour wherein I found such loss,
As care cannot recover:

And last the minute of mishap,
Which makes me thus to plain
The doleful fruits of lovers' suits,
Which labour lose in vain:

Doth make me solemnly protest,

A's I with pain do prove,

There is no time, year, day, nor hour,
Nor minute, good to love.

Though neither tears nor torments can be thought,
Nor death itself, too dear to be sustain'd,

To win those joys so worthy to be sought,
So rare to reach, so sweet to be obtain❜d:

Yet earnest Love, with longing to aspire

To that which Hope holds in so high regard, Makes time delay'd a torment to desire,

When Love with Hope forbears his just reward.

Then, blessed Hope! haste on thy happy days,
Save my desire by short'ning thy delays,*

T.P.

At London. Printed by J. R. for John Flasket, and are to be sold in Paules Churchyard, at the signe of the Beare.. 1600. 4to.-Arms of Bodenham at the back of the title-page. pp. 192.

TO HIS LOVING KINDE 'FRIEND, MAISTER JOHN

BODENHAM.

Wit's Commonwealth, the first fruites of thy paines,
Drew on Wit's Theater, thy second sonne:
By both of which, I cannot count the gaines,
And wondrous profit that the world hath wonne.
Next, in the Muses Garden, gathering flowres,
Thou mad'st a nosegay, as was never sweeter:
Whose scent will savour to Time's latest howres,
And for the greatest Prince no poesie meeter.

Now comes thy Helicon, to make compleate,
And furnish up thy last impos'd designe:
My paines heerein, I cannot terme it great,
But what so-ere, my love (and all) is thine.
Take love, take paines, take all remaines in me:
And where thou art, my heart still lives with thee.
A. B.

*This miscellany has been since reprinted entire, in Heliconia.