Why thus, my love, fo kynde befpeake, Sweet lyppe, sweet eye, sweet blushynge cheeke, Or make a hearte that's lyke our owne. HENRY AND CATHERINE. I' N antiente times in Britain's ifle Lord Henrie was well knowne; No knight was in his day more fam'd His thoughts on honoure always ranne; He never bow'd to love; No ladie in the lande had charmes, His frozen heart to move. Midft all the nymphs where Catherine wente, The fairest face fhe showes; She was as brighte as morning funne; And fweet as any rofe. Altho' fhe was of lowe degree, She fill did conquestes gaine; For fcarce a youth who her behelde, But foone her eys their luftre lost, Her time in fighs, and floodes of tears, Once in a dreame fhe called aloude, "O! Henry! I'me undone! "O cruel fate! O helpleffe maide! "My love can ne'er be knowne. "But 'tis the fate of woman kinde "The truth we must conceale; "I'll die ten thousande thousande deathes, "Ere I my love reveale." A tender friend who watch'd the fair, To Henrie hied away: My lorde, fhe cries, we've found the caufe "Of Catherine's quick decay. N "She in a dreame the fecret tolde, "Till now no mortal knew; "Alas! fhe now expiring lies, "And dies for love of you." The gentle Henrie's foul was ftrucke, "O! poor unhappy maid," he cried! "O! Catherine! too, too modeft maid; 66 Thy love I never knewe, "I'll eafe thy paine.”—As swifte as winde, To her bedfide he flewe. 86 Awake, he cried, thou lovely maid, Awake, awake, my dear! "If I had only gueft thy love, "Thou hadft not shedde a tear. "Tis Henrie calls; defpair no more; "Renew thy wonted charmes : "I'm come to call thee back from deathe, "And take thee to my arms." That word reviv'd the lifeleffe maide, Her armes about his neck fhe flung, In extacy fhe cried, "Will you be kind? Will you indeede? "O! love!"--And fo fhe died. THE MAD SHEPHERDESS. Y lodging it is on the cold ground, ΜΥ But that which troubles me moft is Yet ftill I cry, O turn love, and I prethee love turn to me, For thou art the man that I long for, I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then, My frozen hopes fhall thaw then, O turn to me my dear love, And I prethee love turn to me, For thou art the man that alone canft procure my liberty. But if thou wilt harden thy heart ftill, and be deaf to my pittyful moan, Then I must endure the fmart flill, and tumble in ftraw all alone; Yet fill I cry, O turn love, and I prethee love turn to me, For thou art the man that alone art the caufe of my mifery. HUME AND MURRAY, OR FAIR ROSA LINE'S ESCAPE. OUT Hume, he dwelt in fair Scotland, STOL A worthy wight was he; Whene'er he rais'd his burnish'd brand, He caus'd his foes to flee. And yet he was in prime of youth, Of years fcant twenty-five; In deeds of war, to say the truth, He fear'd no man alive. |