Piers. Nay, long before her face doth show,
The last doth come, the first doth go;

How lowd this lie resoundeth.

Thenot. Astrea is our chiefest joy,

Our chiefest guard against annoy,

Our chiefest wealth, our treasure.

Piers. Where chiefest are, there others be,
To us none else but onely she;—

When wilt thou speake in measure?

Thenot. Astrea may be justly said

A field in flowery robe array'd,

In season freshly springing.

Piers. That spring indures but shortest time,
This never leaves Astrea's clime:-
Thou liest, in stead of singing.

Thenot. Astrea rightly terme I may

A manly palme, a maiden bay,
Her verdure never dying.

Piers. Palme oft is crooked, bay is low,

She still upright, still high doth grow,
Good Thenot leave thy lying.

Thenot. Then, Piers, of friendship tell me why,
My meaning true, my words should lie,

And strive in vain to raise her?—

Piers. Words from conceit doe onely rise,

Above conceit her honour flies:

But silence nought can praise her.

These verses are transcribed from the edition of Davison's Miscellany in 1611. In that of 1602, they

• i. e. Except.

are said to have been "made by the excellent lady, the lady Mary countesse of Pembrook, at the queenes majesties being at her house at ", 15—." A long poem in six-line stanzas, entitled "The Countesse of Pembrooke's Passion," occurs among the Sloanian MSS. No. 1303.

A short specimen of her ladyship's polished elegance in lyrical versification from the scarce tragedy of Antonius, may not prove unwelcome to many readers.

CHORUS.

Lament we our mishaps,

Drowne we with teares our woe;

For lamentable happes

Lamented, easie growe;

And much lesse torment bring,

Than when they first did spring.

We want that wofull song

Wherwith wood-musiques queen

Doth ease her woes, among

Fresh spring-time's bushes greene;
On pleasant branch alone,
Renewing auntient mone.

We want that monefull sound
That pratling Progne makes,
On fields of Thracian ground,
Or streames of Thracian lakes,
To empt her brest of paine
For Itys, by her slaine.

Though Halcyons do still,

Bewailing Ceyx lot,

The seas with plainings fill

Which his dead limmes have got,

Not ever other grave

Than tombe of waves to have.

And though the bird in death,
(That most Meander loves)
So sweetly sighes his breath,
When death his fury proves,

As almost softs his heart,
And almost blunts his dart:

Yet all the plaints of those,

Nor all their tearfull 'larmes,

Cannot content our woes,

Nor serve to waile the harmes In soule which we, poore we, To feele enforced be.]