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 she said, I know it, aye.

I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,

There was no loss by law of kind,
That could have gone so 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, methink, some better ways
On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

JOHN

HARRINGTON.

1534-1582.

ISABELLA MARKHAM.

Or John Harrington and Isabella Markham but little is known, except that the former was the son of Sir James Harrington, who was attainted in the reign of Henry the Seventh, for bearing arms at the battle of Towton, and taking Henry the Sixth prisoner, and that the latter was one of the maids of honor of the Princess Elizabeth. The poems below are copied from the "Nuge Antiquæ," where they bear the dates of 1549, and 1564, both of which dates I believe to be erroneous; the first, because Harrington was only fifteen years old at the time-if the year of his birth be given correctly--the last, because he was then more than ten years married to the fair Isabella, who was confined with him in the Tower by Queen Mary, in 1554, for carrying a letter to the Princess Elizabeth. I should place the first poem some years later, the last some years earlier.

TO ISABELLA MARKHAM.

QUESTION.

Alas! I love you overwell,

Mine own sweet dear delight;

Yet, for respects, I fear to tell

What moves my troubled sprite:

What works my woe, what breeds my smart,

What wounds mine heart and mind,

Reason restrains me to impart

Such perils as I find.

ANSWER.

If present peril reason find,

And hope for help do haste; Unfold the secrets of your mind,

Whilst hope of help may taste. And I will ease your pain and smart, As if it were mine own;

Respects and peril put apart,

And let the truth be known.

QUESTION.

The words be sound, the sound is sweet, The sweet yields bounty free;

No wight hath worth to yield meed meet For grace of such degree:

Now, sith my plaint doth pity move,

Grant grace that I may taste

Such joys as angels feel above,
That lovingly may last.

ANSWER.

I yield with heart and willing mind
To do all you desire;

Doubting no deal such faith to find
As such truth doth require:
Now you have wealth at your own will,
And law at your own lust,

To make or mar, to save or spill;
Then be a conqueror just.

ANSWER.

First shall the sun in darkness dwell,

The moon and stars lack light,

Before in thought I do rebel

Against my life's delight:

Tried is my trust, known is my truth,
In time, my sweet, provide,
Whilst beauty flourish in thine youth,
And breath in me abide.

A SONNET.

Made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her fair, as she stood at the Princess's window in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard.

Whence comes my love, O heart, disclose!
"Twas from cheeks that shamed the rose;
From lips that spoil the rubies' praise;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely own:
Ah, me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind;
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire;

Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus, take thy gifts again;
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

THOMAS WATSON.

1560-1591.

["Ekatompathia, or Passionate Centurie of Love." 1581.]

SONNET.

WHEN May is in his prime, and youthful Spring

Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with flowers, And time of year reviveth everything,

And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lowers;

Then Philomela most doth strain her breast
With night complaints, and sits in little rest.

This bird's estate I may compare with mine,

To whom fond Love doth work such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may,
Whilst others are becalmed, or lie them still,
Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will.

And as all those which hear this bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,

Without remorse, or pitying her pain;

So she, for whom I wail both day and night,
Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint,
A just reward for serving such a saint!