fire till now had pass’d,
    Carelessly left at last
    Near the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,
    Was kindled instantly: 
    Like martyrdom, ne’er known by day or night,
    A heart of marble had to mercy shamed. 
    Which first her charms inflamed
    Her fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;
    That thus she crushed and kindled my heart’s fire,
    Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.

    Beyond our earth’s known brinks,
    In the famed Islands of the Blest, there be
    Two founts:  of this who drinks
    Dies smiling:  who of that to live is free. 
    A kindred fate Heaven links
    To my sad life, who, smilingly, could die
    For like o’erflowing joy,
    But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay. 
    Love! still who guidest my way,
    Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,
    Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,
    Ever with larger power
    O’erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;
    So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,
    But in that season most when I my Lady met.

    Should any ask, my Song! 
    Or how or where I am, to such reply: 
    Where the tall mountain throws
    Its shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,
    He roams, where never eye
    Save Love’s, who leaves him not a step, is by,
    And one dear image who his peace destroys,
    Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CV.

Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova.

HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME.

      Vengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie whore
    Of Babilon, thow breaker of Christ’s fold,
    That from achorns, and from the water colde,
    Art riche become with making many poore. 
    Thow treason’s neste that in thie harte dost holde
    Of cankard malice, and of myschief more
    Than pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,
    Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;
    For wyne and ease which settith all thie store
    Uppon whoredome and none other lore,
    In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and olde
    Theare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde: 
    Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde: 
    It is but late, as wryting will recorde,
    That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;
    Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,
    In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,
    That it dothe stincke before the face of God.

    (?) WYATT.[T]

[Footnote T:  Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]