OLD POETS.

Melancholy from the spleen begun, By passion mov'd into the veins doth run; Which when this humour as a swelling flood, By vigour is infused in the blood, The vital spirits doth mightily appal, And weakeneth so the parts organical, And when the senses are disturb'd and tir'd With what the heart incessantly desir'd, Like travellers with labour long oppress'd Finding relief, eftsoons thy fall to rest.

Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet, When like desires and affections meet; For from the earth to heaven is Cupid raised Where fancies are in equal balance peised.

O learn to love, the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again.

Such colour had her face as when the sun Shines in a watery cloud in pleasant spring; And even as when the summer is begun The nightingales in boughs do sit and sing, So the blind god, whose force can no man shun Sits in her eyes, and thence his darts doth fling; Bathing his wings in her bright crystal streams, And sunning them in her rare beauties beams. In these he heads his golden-headed dart, In those he cooleth it, and tempereth so, He levels thence at good Oberto's heart, And to the head he draws it in his bow.

Against bad tongues goodness cannot defend her, Those be most free from faults they least will spare, But prate of them whom they have scantly known, Judging their humors to be like their own.

Daughter of Time, sincere Posterity Always new born, yet no man knows thy birth, The arbitress of pure Sincerity, Yet, changeable, (like Proteus on the earth) Sometime in plenty, sometime joined with dearth. Always to come, yet always present here, Whom all run after, none come after near. Impartial judge of all save present state Truth's Idioma of the things are past, But still pursuing present things with hate, And more injurious at the first than last, Preserving others while thine own do waste; True treasurer of all antiquity, Whom all desire, yet never one could see.

The poets old in their fond fables feign, That mighty Mars is god of war and strife, The Astronomers think that whereas Mars doth reign, That all debate and discord must be rife; Some think Bellona goddess of that life. Among the rest that painter had some skill, Which thus in arms did once set out the same:— A field of gules, and on a golden hill, A stately town consumed all with flame On chief of sable taken from the dame, A sucking babe, oh! born to bide mischance Begored with blood and pierced with a lance On high the Helm, I bear it well in mind, The wreath was silver, powdered all with shot, About the which, goutte du sang, did twine A roll of sable black, and foul be blot The crest two hands which may not be forgot, For in the right a trenchant blade did stand, And in the left a fiery, burning brand.