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WHAT YOU PLEASE. No. II. 



MY DEAR MARMADUKE 



WITHAM HABINGTON, one of the sweetest and least known poets, who 

 rendered illustrious the early part of the 17th century, has very pro- 

 perly observed in the introduction to his " Castara," that a " Mistress is 

 the fairest treasure the avarice of love can covet." You will be happy 

 to learn that I found one in the fair incognita to whom I alluded in my 

 former letter. Of course, I need not say that every thing is " quite 

 correct." You may naturally conclude that I write nothing but amatory 

 verses. In order to comprehend the following, no other information is 

 required, except that the lady is magnificent, and that her name is 

 Emily. 



You will be pleased to learn, that among the subjects given out to the 

 candidates for the recently founded Pusey scholarships, is my poem to 

 the lady, (which appeared in your last number) to be rendered into 

 Hebrew and the cognate dialects. You will readily conceive the extent 

 of the compliment. 



In great haste, yours ever, 

 Oxford, July, 23. ALGERNON SYDNEY. 



A MAY-SONG FOR EMILY. 



FAIR mistress of the earth, with garlands crown'd, 

 Rise, by a lover's charm, from the parcht ground, 

 And shew thy flow'ry wealth ; that she, where ere 

 Her starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there, 

 Should she to the cold northerne climates goe, 

 Force thy affrighted lilies there to grow, 

 Thy rose's in those gelid fields t' appear, 

 She absent, I have all their winter here. 



HABINGTON'S CASTARA. 



MAY'S red lips are breath'd apart 



By the music of her heart 



Which ever gently stealeth thro', 



Like enchanted honey dew, 



Falling from some odour tree 



In the golden Araby ; 



And gladness danceth on each stream, 



And singing comes in every dream, 



Riches flow on bower and lea, 



But I am poor in wanting thee, 



Oh, beloved Emily ! 



Pleasant May, I love thee well, 



When within my silent cell, 



In the quiet shadow sitting, 



Thy mild beaming eye is flitting 



O'er the page of poets old, 



Touching the pale scroll with gold. 



I sit alone in summer eves, 

 Hiding my head among the leaves 

 Of some thick-branching laurel tree, 

 When the air is warm with glee, 



