Ripened with a breath more sweet
Than when flowers and west-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polished neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! Hearts of slain
Lovers made into a chain!
And between each rising breast,
Lies the valley, called my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very name,
With my mother's is the same."
I confess all, I replied,

And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waist,
All is Venus, save unchaste.
But, alas, thou see'st the least
Of her good, who is the best

Of her sex; but could'st thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied.
Outward grace weak Love beguiles:
She is Venus when she smiles,
But she's Juno when she walks,

And Minerva when she talks.

CLAIMING A SECOND KISS BY DESERT.

Charis, guess, and do not miss,
Since I drew a morning kiss

From your lips, and sucked an air
Thence, as sweet as you are fair,
What my muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost or won,

If by us the odds were laid,
That the bride, allowed a maid,
Looked not half so fresh and fair,
With th' advantage of her hair,
And her jewels, to the view
Of th' assembly, as did you.

Or, that you did sit, or walk,
You were more the eye and talk
Of the court, to-day, than all
Else that glistened in Whitehall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wished the bride were changed to night,
And did think such rites were due,

To no other grace but you!

Or, if you did move to-night In the dances, with what spite Of

your peers you were beheld, That at every motion swelled So to see a lady tread,

As might all the graces lead,

And was worthy, being so seen,

To be envied of the queen.

Or, if you would yet have stayed, Whether any would upbraid

To himself his loss of time;

Or have charged his sight of crime,
To have left all sight for you:
Guess of these which is the true;

And if such a verse as this,

May not claim another kiss.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER,

EARL OF STIRLING.

1580-1640.

sonnets.

AURORA.

THE Aurora of the Earl of Stirling was a reality and not a myth, his biographers tell us, though they have not succeeded in discovering her name. He is said to have fallen in love with her in his fifteenth year, and to have kept her image fresh in his heart during a long tour on the Continent with the Earl of Argyle, whom he accompanied as tutor, or companion. On his return to Scotland he devoted himself to solitude and "He now pressed his suit"-(I quote from his biography in the "LIVES OF SCOTTISH POETS")" with all the ardour of manhood, and enthusiasm of poetry; but though he actually penned upwards of a hundred songs and sonnets in her praise, the fair enslaver was not to be moved. The object of Alexander's passion," the biographer continues, after quoting one of his songs, at last gave her hand to another; and as the poet himself poetically tells us, 'the lady, so unrelenting to him, matched her morning to one in the evening of his age.' Alexander sustained his disappointment with great philosophy; he neither drowned himself, nor burnt his sonnets; but, reserving the latter for future use, became again a wooer.

66

In his next attachment he was more fortunate,

and after a brief courtship, obtained in marriage the hand of Janet, the daughter and heiress of Sir William Erskine."

Stirling's sonnets were first published in 1604.

I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes,

And by those golden locks whose lock none slips,

And by the coral of thy rosy lips,

And by the naked snows which beauty dyes;

I swear by all the jewels of thy mind,
Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought,

Thy solid judgment and thy generous thought,
Which in this darkened age have clearly shined:
I swear by those, and by my spotless love,
And by my secret, yet most fervent fires,
That I have never nursed but chaste desires,
And such as modesty might well approve.
Then since I love those virtuous parts in thee,
Should'st thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

If that so many brave men leaving Greece,
Durst erst adventure through the raging deep,
And all to get the spoils of one poor sheep,
That had been famous for his golden fleece;
O then for that pure gold what should be sought,
Of which each hair is worth a thousand such!

No doubt for it one cannot do too much;

Why should not precious things be dearly bought?
And so they are, for in the Colchic guise,
This treasure many a danger doth defend:
Of which, when I have brought some one to end,
Straight out of that a number doth arise:
Even as the dragon's teeth bred men at arms,
Which, ah, t'o'erthrow I want Medea's charms.

Now when the Siren sings, as one dismayed,
I straight with wax begin to stop mine ears;
And when the crocodile doth shed forth tears,
I fly away, for fear to be betrayed.

I know when as thou seem'st to wail my state,
Thy face is no true table of thy mind;
And thou would'st never show thyself so kind,
Wer't not thy thoughts are hatching some deceit :
Whilst with vain hopes thou go'st about to fill me,

I wot whereto those drams of favour tend;
Lest by my death thy cruelties should end,

Thou think'st by giving life again to kill me:

No, no, thou shalt not thus thy greatness raise, I'll break the trumpet that proclaimed thy praise.

I dreamed, the nymph that o'er my fancy reigns, Came to a part whereas I paused alone,

Then said, "What needs you in such sort to moan? Have I not power to recompense your pains?

Lo! I conjure you by that loyal love

Which you profess, to cast those griefs apart;

It's long, dear love, since that you had my heart,
Yet I was coy your constancy to prove,
But having had a proof, I'll now be free:

I am the echo that your sighs resounds,
Your woes are mine, I suffer in your wounds,
Your passions all they sympathise in me:"
Thus whilst for kindness both began to weep,
My happiness evanished with the sleep.

Ah, thou (my love) wilt lose thyself at last,
Who can to match thyself with none agree:
Thou ow'st thy father nephews, and to me
A recompense for all my passions past.

Ah, why should'st thou thy beauty's treasure waste,
Which will begin for to decay I see?

Erst Daphne did become a barren tree,

Because she was not half so wise as chaste:

And all the fairest things do soonest fade,
Which O, I fear, thou'lt with repentance try:

The roses blasted are, the lilies die,

And all do languish in the summer's shade:

Yet will I grieve to see those flowers fall down, Which for my temples should have framed a crown.