Maie weel the thotes of gentill shepherdds joie.
Whose hertes ne hopelesse loves or cares alloie;
Butt whatt cann seeme to teneful loverrs fayre.
Whose hopes butt darkenns moe the mydnyghtt of despayre?

MATYLDA.

To thotelesse swayns itt maie bee blyss indeede,
To marke the yeare through alle hys ages speede,
Butt everie seasone seemes alych to mee,
Eternall wynterr whann awaie from thee!
Fromm howrr to howrr I oftt beweepe ourr love,
Wyth all the happie sorowe of the dove,
And fancie, as itts sylentt waterrs flowe,
Mie bosome's swetestt joies mustt thos bee mientt[14] wyth woe.

Palerr thann cloudes thatt stayne the azure nyghtt,
Or starrs thatt shoote beneathe theyr feeble lyghtt,
And eke as crymson as the mornyng's rode,[15]
The lornlie[16] payre inn dumbe dystracyon stoode
Whann onn the banke Matylda sonke and dyed,
And Alfrede plong'dd hys daggerr inn hys syde:
Hys purpell soule came roshynge fromm the wounde,
And o'err the lyfeless claie deathe's ensygns stream'dd arownde.

_Literary Gazette._

[7] Tender.
[8] Woes.
[9] Express.