Lalage. It is not only by their depth and their vigour that we must judge of poets.
With these remarks we proceed to give some of the Nugæ Canoræ of our Laureate.
TO ———
O, do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.
O, be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.
O, do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears,
Mine own enough betray me.
Mr. Gifford is as extravagant in his praise as the world has been cold in its appreciation. He speaks of this song thus: "If it be not the most beautiful song in the language, I freely confess, for my own part, that I know not where it is to be found." Now, it is pretty enough, but from Waller to Moore we could quote many that would equal, and some that would surpass it. Much better known, and far more beautiful, is Jonson's "Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke."
"Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee."
And so are the three following verses, selected from some
