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And her two lilly paps aloft displayd,

And all, that might his melting hart entyse

To her delights, she unto him bewrayd;

The rest, hidd underneath, him more desirous made.

With that the other likewise up arose,

And her faire lockes, which formerly were bownd
Up in one knott, she low adowne did lose,
Which flowing long and thick her cloth'd arownd,
And th' yvorie in golden mantle gownd:

So that faire spectacle from him was reft,

Yet that which reft it no lesse faire was fownd:
So hidd in lockes and waves from lookers theft,
Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left.

Withall she laughed, and she blusht withall,
That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,
And laughter to her blushing, as did fall.

Now when they spyde the knight to slacke his pace
Them to behold, and in his sparkling face

The secrete signs of kindled lust appeare,
Their wanton merriments they did encreace,
And to him beckned to approch more neare,

And shewd him many sights that corage cold could reare.

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,
Such as attonce might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it heare,
To read what manner musicke that mote bee;
For all that pleasing is to living eare

Was there consorted in one harmonee;

Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree:

The joyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;
Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet;
The silver-sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmure of the waters fall;
The waters fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

There, whence that musick seemed heard to bee,
Was the faire witch herselfe now solacing
With a new lover, whom, through sorceree
And witchcraft, she from farre did thether bring:
There she had him now laid a slombering
In secret shade after long wanton joyes;
Whilst round about them pleasauntly did sing
Many faire ladies and lascivious boyes,

That ever mixt their song with light licentious toyes.

And all that while right over him she hong
With her false eyes fast fixed in his sight,
As seeking medicine whence she was stong,
Or greedily depasturing delight;

And oft inclining downe with kisses light,
For feare of waking him, his lips bedewd,
And through his humid eyes did sucke his spright,
Quite molten into lust and pleasure lewd;
Wherewith she sighed soft, as if his case she rewd.

The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;
"Ah! see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see,
In springing flowre the image of thy day!
Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee
Doth first peepe foorth with bashfull modestee,
That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may!
Lo! see soone after how more bold and free
Her bared bosome she doth broad display!
Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away!

"So passeth, in the passing of a day,

Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre;

Ne more doth florish after first decay,

That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre
Of many a lady and many a paramowre!
Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime,
For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre:
Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time,

Whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime."

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, the eldest son of Sir Henry Sidney, was born on the 29th of November, 1554, at Penshurst, in Kent. His life was one scene of romance from its commencement to its close. His early years were spent in travel, and on his return he was married to the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, a lady of many accomplishments, and of "extraordinary handsomenesse," but his heart was given to another. The Lady Penelope Devereux won it, and kept it till he fell on the field of Zutphen. Family regards had forbad their marriage, but she was united to the immortal part of him, and that contract has not been yet dissolved. She is still the Philoclea of the Arcadia, and Stella in the poems of Astrophel. It is unnecessary to follow, in detail, the course of Sir Philip Sidney's life. There is no strange inconsistency in it to reason off, no stain to clear, no blame to talk away. We describe it when we name his accomplishments. We remember it as we would a dream of uninterrupted glory. His learning, his beauty, his chivalry, his grace, shed a lustre on the most glorious reign recorded in the English annals. England herself, by reason of the wide-spread fame of Sir Philip Sidney, rose exalted in the eyes of foreign nations. He was the idol, the darling, of his own. For, with every sort of power at his command, it was his creed to think all vain but affection and honour, and to hold the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious. The only displeasure he ever incurred at court, was, when he vindicated the rights and independence of English commoners in his own gallant person, against the arrogance of English nobles in the person of the Earl of Oxford. For a time, then, he retired from the court, and sought rest in his loved simplicity. He went to Wilton, and there, for the amusement of his dear sister, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, he wrote the "Arcadia." "My great uncle," says Aubrey, "Mr. T. Browne, remembered him; and said that he was wont to take his table-book out of his pocket, and write down his notions as they came into his head, when he was writing his Arcadia, as he was hunting on our pleasant plains." Again, however, he returned to court, and his Queen seized every opportunity to do him honour. He received her smiles with the same high and manly gallantry, the same plain and simple boldness, with which he had taken her frowns. In the end, Elizabeth— who, to preserve this "jewel of her crown," had forcibly laid hands on him when he projected a voyage to America with Sir Francis Drake, and laid her veto on his quitting England, when he was offered the crown of Poland-could not restrain his bravery in battle, when circumstances called him there. At Zutphen, on the 22d of September, 1586, he received a mortal wound. He had a noble mourning. Kings clad themselves in dresses of grief, and universities poured forth their classical tributes of learning and of love.

It is impossible to look through an impartial medium at the genius of Sir Philip Sidney. It has the same privileges that adorned his life. "His wit and understanding," says his friend Lord Brooke, "beat upon his heart, to make himself and others, not in word or opinion, but in life and action, good and great." This beating upon the heart includes almost all that we would say. The sweetness of his poetry, its exquisite and pensive softness, its delicacy, and fanciful richness, may be all referred to this, and to this alone, for in no other poet are they felt, as we feel them in Sidney, joined in immediate and most subtle union with the personal refinement of the poet's nature. Its main defects arise, as we apprehend, from the occasional ill-harmonised connexion which is seen in it between the high heroic and the simple pastoral. His sonnets we consider exquisite. They express, in the highest and most perfect way, the lofty Sidnean love. For in this, as in all things else, we are thrown again upon a personal reference. We must remember that it is the love of Sir Philip Sidney, a love which did not feed upon, and exhaust itself, but which pervaded and illustrated his life, his actions, his pursuits, and made the glorious vanities and graceful hyperboles of the passion

"Things not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food."

Let us be careful, then, in accusing Sir Philip Sidney of conceit. The images which lay at his feet, and were to him most natural, live far away from the thoughts of more ordinary men. Judge him in all things by his own standard, and he will be found in all things more than worthy of his undying fame.

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FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.

In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed, in thy most serious wayes? That when the heav'n to thee his best displayes,

Yet of that best, thou leav'st the best behinde For like a childe that some faire booke doth find, With gilded leaves or colour'd velume playes, Or, at the most on some fine picture stayes, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind:

So when thou saw'st, in nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'tst babies in her eyes,

In her cheekes' pit, thou did'st thy pitfould set,
And in her breast, bo-peepe, or couching, lies,
Playing, and shining in each outward part;
But, foole, seek'st not to get into her heart.

BECAUSE I oft, in darke abstracted guise,
Seeme most alone in greatest company;
With dearth of words, or answers quite awrie,

To them that would make speech of speech arise:
They deeme, and of their doome the rumour flies,
That poison foule of bubbling pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I

Fawne on myselfe, and others do despise :

Yet pride, I thinke, doth not my soule possesse,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glasse:
But one worse fault, ambition, I confesse,

That makes me oft my best friends overpasse,
Unseene, unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace.

WITH how sad steps, O moone, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wanne a face!
What! may it be, that ev'n in heav'nly place
That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I reade it in thy lookes, thy languish't grace
To me, that feele the like, thy state descries.

Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moone, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

Those lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse ? Do they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?

COME, sleepe: O sleepe! the certaine knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balme of woe,

The poore man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge betweene the high and low;

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