mere rhetoric; they miss the genuine philosophic note of the somewhat similar plays of Alexander's older contemporary, the Mustapha and Alaham of Lord Brooke. Still, Lord Stirling was an interesting man both in his life and in his writings, and he deserves to be not quite excluded from a collection of English poems. His time admired his work; his books sold; Habington, Daniel, Drayton, and many other poets praised him; above all, he was the close friend of Drummond-the Alexis to the Damon of Hawthornden. His 'century of sonnets' lack indeed the reality and the music of the best of Drummond's, and his Aurora is a vague and shadowy goddess. But the two sonnets that we quote will show that Drayton had reason for calling him 'that most ingenious knight'; and the ode that follows, though defaced by one or two blemishes, deals with the commonplaces of the tragic chorus in a way that is not altogether commonplace.

EDITOR.

SONNETS.

[From Aurora.]

I envy not Endymion now no more,

Nor all the happiness his sleep did yield,
While as Diana, straying through the field,

Suck'd from his sleep-seal'd lips balm for her sore:
Whilst I embraced the shadow of my death,

I dreaming did far greater pleasure prove,
And quaff'd with Cupid sugar'd draughts of love
Then, Jove-like, feeding on a nectar'd breath.
Now judge which of us two might be most proud;
He got a kiss yet not enjoy'd it right,
And I got none, yet tasted that delight
Which Venus on Adonis once bestow'd:
He only got the body of a kiss,

And I the soul of it, which he did miss.

Love swore by Styx, while all the depths did tremble,
That he would be avenged of my proud heart,
Who to his deity durst base styles impart,
And would in that Latona's imp resemble :
Then straight denounced his rebel, in a rage
He laboured by all means for to betray me,
And gave full leave to any for to slay me,
That he might by my wrack his wrath assuage.
A nymph, that longed to finish Cupid's toils,
Chanced once to spy me come in beauty's bounds,
And straight o'erthrew me with a world of wounds,
Then unto Paphos did transport my spoils.

Thus, thus I see that all must fall in end,
That with a greater than themselves contend.

FROM THE TRAGEDY Of Darius,

Chorus 3.

Time, through Jove's judgment just,

Huge alteration brings;

Those are but fools who trust

In transitory things,

Whose tails bear mortal stings,
Which in the end will wound;
And let none think it strange,
Though all things earthly change:
In this inferior round

What is from ruin free?

The elements which be

At variance, as we see,
Each th' other doth confound:
The earth and air make war,

The fire and water are

Still wrestling at debate,

All those through cold and heat
Through drought and moisture jar.
What wonder though men change and fade
Who of those changing elements are made?

How dare vain worldlings vaunt
Of Fortune's goods not lasting,
Evils which our wits enchant?
Expos'd to loss and wasting!
Lo, we to death are hasting,
Whilst we those things discuss.
All things from their beginning
Still to an end are running,
Heaven hath ordained it thus;
We hear how it doth thunder,
We see th' earth burst asunder,
And yet we never ponder
What this imports to us:

These fearful signs do prove That th' angry powers above Are mov'd to indignation Against this wretched nation, Which they no longer love: What are we but a puff of breath

Who live assured of nothing but of death?

Who was so happy yet
As never had some cross?
Though on a throne he sit,
And is not vexed with loss,
Yet fortune once will toss

Him, when that least he would;
If one had all at once
Hydaspes' precious stones
And yellow Tagus' gold;
The oriental treasure

And every earthly pleasure,
Even in the greatest measure
It should not make him bold:
For while he lives secure,
His state is most unsure ;
When it doth least appear

Some heavy plague draws near,

Destruction to procure.

World's glory is but like a flower,

Which both is bloom'd and blasted in an hour.

In what we most repose
We find our comfort light,
The thing we soonest lose
That's precious in our sight;
In honour, riches, might,
Our lives in pawn we lay;
Yet all like flying shadows,
Or flowers enameling meadows,
Do vanish and decay.

Long time we toil to find
These idols of the mind,
Which had, we cannot bind
To bide with us one day.
Then why should we presume
On treasures that consume,
Difficult to obtain,

Difficult to retain,

A dream, a breath, a fume?

Which vex them most that them possess,

Who starve with store and famish with excess.