O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, They that heaven have known do say, That whoso that grace obtaineth, To see what fair sight there reigneth, Forcéd are to sing alway: So then since that heaven remaineth In thy face, I plainly see, Heart and soul do sing in me. O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Sweet, think not I am at ease, For because my chief part singeth; This song from death’s sorrow springeth: As to swan in last disease: For no dumbness, nor death, bringeth Stay to true love’s melody: Heart and soul do sing in me. TRANSLATION. _From Horace_, _Book II. Ode X._, _beginning_ “_Rectius vives_, _Licini_,” _&c._ YOU better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea’s rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore. The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be. The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves. Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall. Though present times, and past, with evils be snared, They shall not last: with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared. In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails. A SONNET BY SIR EDWARD DYER. PROMETHEUS, when first from heaven high He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen; Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by, Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been. Feeling forthwith the other burning power, Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill, He sought his ease in river, field, and bower; But, for the time, his grief went with him still. So silly I, with that unwonted sight, In human shape an angel from above, Feeding mine eyes, th’ impression there did light; That since I run and rest as pleaseth love: The difference is, the satyr’s lips, my heart, He for a while, I evermore, have smart. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY’S SONNET IN REPLY. A SATYR once did run away for dread, With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled, Deeming strange evil in that he did not know. Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would have; As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake, Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.