Report was summon'd then in haste, And will'd to bring his trump in hand, To blow therewith a sounding blast, That might be heard through Brutus' land. Pandora straight the trumpet blew, That each this Countess Warwick knew. O seely[5] Nature, born to pain, O woful, wretched kind (I say), That to forsake the soil were fain To make this Countess out of clay: But, O most friendly gods, that wold, Vouchsafe to set your hands to mould. [1] 'Kind:' nature. [2] 'Imps:' children. [3] 'Wonne:' dwell. [4] 'Feat:' neat. [5] 'Seely:' simple. * * * * * In reference to the Miscellaneous Pieces which close this period, we need only say that the best of them is 'The Soul's Errand,' and that its authorship is uncertain. It has, with very little evidence in any of the cases, been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh, to Francis Davison, (author of a compilation entitled 'A Poetical Rhapsody,' published in 1593, and where 'The Soul's Errand' first appeared,) and to Joshua Sylvester, who prints it in his volume of verses, with vile interpolations of his own. Its outspoken energy and pithy language render it worthy of any of our poets. HARPALUS' COMPLAINT OF PHILLIDA'S LOVE BESTOWED ON CORIN, WHO LOVED HER NOT, AND DENIED HIM THAT LOVED HER. 1 Phillida was a fair maid, As fresh as any flower; Whom Harpalus the herdman pray'd To be his paramour. 2 Harpalus, and eke Corin, Were herdmen both yfere:[1] And Phillida would twist and spin, And thereto sing full clear. 3 But Phillida was all too coy For Harpalus to win; For Corin was her only joy, Who forced[2] her not a pin. 4 How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make Of cowslips and of columbine, And all for Conn's sake! 5 But Corin he had hawks to lure, And forced more the field: Of lovers' law he took no cure; For once he was beguiled. 6 Harpalus prevailed nought, His labour all was lost; For he was furthest from her thought, And yet he loved her most. 7 Therefore was he both pale and lean, And dry as clod of clay: His flesh it was consumed clean; His colour gone away. 8 His beard it not long be shave; His hair hung all unkempt: A man most fit even for the grave, Whom spiteful love had shent.[3] 9 His eyes were red, and all forwacht;[4] It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht, His face besprent with tears: In midst of his despairs. 10 His clothes were black, and also bare; As one forlorn was he; Upon his head always he ware A wreath of willow tree. 11 His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sat in the dale; And thus with sighs and sorrows shrill He 'gan to tell his tale. 12 'O Harpalus!' thus would he say; Unhappiest under sun! The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun.