THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM,

[The Passionate Pilgrim was first published by William Jaggard in small 8vo. in 1599, with our author's name, ir which are inserted a sonnet and ode, which had appeared during the preceding year in a collection of poems written by Richard Barnefield. In the year 1612 the same publisher proceeded still farther; for he then added to the former miscellany a celebrated madrigal of Marlowe, beginning with the words, Come, live with me, and be my love,' together with several pieces written by Thomas Heywood, who loudly complained of Jaggard's fraud: notwithstanding which remonstrance, these productions still continued to be inserted in all subsequent editions of our author's poems till the time of Malone; nor was the fallacy detected till the year 1766, when it was pointed out by Dr. Farmer, in his very ingenious Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare. The order in which these little pieces stand in the old copy is not followed by Mr. Malone, who has classed all those which relate to Adonis together.]

J.

SWEET Cytherea, sitting by a brook,

With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look:-
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.

She told him stories to delight his ear;

She show'd him favors to allure his eye;

To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there:
Touches so soft still conquer chastity,

But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer;--
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:

He rose, and ran away; ah, fool, too froward!

II.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made,
Under an osier growing by a brook ;

A brook, where Adon used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day; she hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's greer
brim ;

The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.

He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood: 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood.'