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HENRY VIII.

LORD SURREY.

HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey, is considered as the firs

Englifo classic. His Poems, together with those of Sir Thomas Wyat, the elder, and those of uncertain authors, were published by Tottel, in 1557, and 1565. A very satisfactory account of the contributors to this curious miscellany may be found in the third volume of Warton's History of Englise Poetry. Tottel's editions are now extremely scarce, and even the copy of them printed in 1717, in Octavo, is not very common.

Give place, ye lovers; here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
My lady's beauty palleth more
The best of yours, I dare well saine,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.

And thereto hath a truth as juft,
As had Penelope the fair ;
For what she faith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were.
And virtues hath she

many

moe Than I with pen have skill to show.

I could rehearse, if that I would,
The whole effect of nature's plaint;
When she had lost the perfect mould,
The like to whom she could not paint.
With wringing hands how she did cry!
And what the said I know it, I:

I know she swore, with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss by law of kind,
That could have

gone

fo near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain, She could not make the like again,

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefest work she wrought;
In faith, methinks, some better ways
On your behalf might well be fought,
Than to compare (as ye have done)
To match the candle with the sun.

OD E. The foote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale, with feathers new, she sings, The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come: for every spray now springs. The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; The buck in brake his winter coat he Alings, The fishes float, with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she fings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies small; The busy bee, her honey now the mings, Winter is

the flower's bale; And thus I see, among these pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my forrow springs !

gone, that was

SIR THOMAS WYAT.

Your looks so often cast,
Your eyes so friendly rollid,
Your fight fixed so fast,
Always one to behold;
Tho' hide it fain ye would,
It plainly doth declare,
Who hath your heart in hold,
And where good-will ye bear.

Fain would ye find a cloak
Your burning fire to hide,
Yet both the flame and smoke
Breaks out on every side.
Ye cannot love so guide
That it no issue win;
Abroad needs must it glide
That burns so hot within.

Since love will needs that I must love,
Of very force I must agree :
And since no chance

may

it

remove,
In wealth and in adversity,
I shall always myself apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.

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