Yet for this name or ideal, or whatever Phillis represented in the poet's thought, he has poured forth a passion that has an air of sincerity, an artless freshness, a flute-like clearness of tone, as rare as delightful. It is the very voice of the oaten pipe itself, thin, clear, and pure. The touches of seriousness are impossible, to mistake. When the poet avows his faith in Phillis' constancy, after giving the usual catalogue of her beauties, he says: "At thy fair hands who wonders not at all Wonder itself through ignorance embases; Yet not the less though wondrous gifts you call these My faith is far more wonderful than all these." When Phillis persists in her disdain, he cries out impulsively: "Burst, burst, poor heart, thou hast no longer hope!" Even when re-moulding the familiar pastoral conceits, he makes the fancies his own and gives to them a unique touch and spirit. Mere conventions he rates at their proper value. His pen shall not "riot in pompous style." He claims a brighter aspect for his poetical devotion than his fellow-sonneteers manifest: "No stars her; eyes.... .... but beams that clear the sight Of him that seeks the true philosophy." In spite of its defects, the lax structure of the sonnet-form, the obscurities and needless blurring, and the disappointing inequalities, _Phillis_ takes a high place among the sonnet-cycles, and must ever be dear to lovers of quiet, melodious verse, who have made themselves at home in the golden world of the pastoral poets and mislike not the country-carolling heard therein. THE INDUCTION I that obscured have fled the scene of fame, Intitling my conceits to nought but care, I that have lived a phoenix in love's flame, And felt that death I never would declare, Now mount the theater of this our age, To plead my faith and Cupid's cursed rage. Oh you high sp'rited paragons of wit, That fly to fame beyond our earthly pitch, Whose sense is sound, whose words are feat and fit, Able to make the coyest ear to itch; Shroud with your mighty wings that mount so well, These little loves, new crept from out the shell. And thou the true Octavia of our time, Under whose worth beauty was never matched, The genius of my muse and ragged rime, Smile on these little loves but lately hatched, Who from the wrastling waves have made retreat, To plead for life before thy judgment seat. And though the fore-bred brothers they have had, Who in their swan-like songs Amintas wept, For all their sweet-thought sighs had fortune bad, And twice obscured in Cinthia's circle slept, Yet these I hope, under your kind aspect, Most worthy Lady, shall escape neglect.