Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:Out of thy golden quiverTake thou thy strongest arrowThat will through bone and marrow,And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:—But come behind, for if she look upon thee,Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!
Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:Out of thy golden quiverTake thou thy strongest arrowThat will through bone and marrow,And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:—But come behind, for if she look upon thee,Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!
Anon.
Weep you no more, sad fountains:—What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven's sun doth gently waste!But my Sun's heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly lies,Sleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets:—Doth not the sun rise smiling,When fair at even he sets?—Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping!While She lies sleepingSoftly, now softly lies,Sleeping!
Weep you no more, sad fountains:—What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven's sun doth gently waste!But my Sun's heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly lies,Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets:—Doth not the sun rise smiling,When fair at even he sets?—Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping!While She lies sleepingSoftly, now softly lies,Sleeping!
Anon.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:—So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:—
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
W. Shakespeare
When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's bestOf hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have exprestEv'n such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all, you prefiguring;And for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:For we, which now behold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's bestOf hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have exprestEv'n such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all, you prefiguring;And for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
W. Shakespeare
Turn back, you wanton flyer,And answer my desireWith mutual greeting.Yet bend a little nearer,—True beauty still shines clearerIn closer meeting!Hearts with hearts delightedShould strive to be united,Each other's arms with arms enchaining,—Hearts with a thought,Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.What harvest half so sweet isAs still to reap the kissesGrown ripe in sowing?And straight to be receiverOf that which thou art giver,Rich in bestowing?There is no strict observingOf times' or seasons' swerving,There is ever one fresh spring abiding;—Then what we sow with our lipsLet us reap, love's gains dividing.
Turn back, you wanton flyer,And answer my desireWith mutual greeting.Yet bend a little nearer,—True beauty still shines clearerIn closer meeting!Hearts with hearts delightedShould strive to be united,Each other's arms with arms enchaining,—Hearts with a thought,Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.
What harvest half so sweet isAs still to reap the kissesGrown ripe in sowing?And straight to be receiverOf that which thou art giver,Rich in bestowing?There is no strict observingOf times' or seasons' swerving,There is ever one fresh spring abiding;—Then what we sow with our lipsLet us reap, love's gains dividing.
T. Campion
Never love unless you canBear with all the faults of man!Men sometimes will jealous beThough but little cause they see,And hang the head as discontent,And speak what straight they will repent.Men, that but one Saint adore,Make a show of love to more;Beauty must be scorn'd in none,Though but truly served in one:For what is courtship but disguise?True hearts may have dissembling eyes.Men, when their affairs require,Must awhile themselves retire;Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,And not ever sit and talk:—If these and such-like you can bear,Then like, and love, and never fear!
Never love unless you canBear with all the faults of man!Men sometimes will jealous beThough but little cause they see,And hang the head as discontent,And speak what straight they will repent.
Men, that but one Saint adore,Make a show of love to more;Beauty must be scorn'd in none,Though but truly served in one:For what is courtship but disguise?True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,Must awhile themselves retire;Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,And not ever sit and talk:—If these and such-like you can bear,Then like, and love, and never fear!
T. Campion
On a day, alack the day!Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the wind,All unseen, 'gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee:Thou for whom Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiope were,And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
On a day, alack the day!Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the wind,All unseen, 'gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee:Thou for whom Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiope were,And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
W. Shakespeare
Forget not yet the tried intentOf such a truth as I have meant;My great travail so gladly spent,Forget not yet!Forget not yet when first beganThe weary life ye know, since whanThe suit, the service none tell can;Forget not yet!Forget not yet the great assays,The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,The painful patience in delays,Forget not yet!Forget not! O, forget not this,How long ago hath been, and isThe mind that never meant amiss—Forget not yet!Forget not then thine own approvedThe which so long hath thee so loved,Whose steadfast faith yet never moved—Forget not this!
Forget not yet the tried intentOf such a truth as I have meant;My great travail so gladly spent,Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first beganThe weary life ye know, since whanThe suit, the service none tell can;Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,The painful patience in delays,Forget not yet!
Forget not! O, forget not this,How long ago hath been, and isThe mind that never meant amiss—Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approvedThe which so long hath thee so loved,Whose steadfast faith yet never moved—Forget not this!
Sir T. Wyat
O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breastAnd thy relenting heart would kindly warm.O if thy pride did not our joys controul,What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moanNor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;No, I would have my share in what were thine:And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,This happy harmony would make them none.
O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breastAnd thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
O if thy pride did not our joys controul,What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moanNor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;No, I would have my share in what were thine:
And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,This happy harmony would make them none.
W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline
I saw my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to be advancéd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep,Her face was full of woe,But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:She made her sighs to sing,And all things with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve and love.O fairer than aught elseThe world can show, leave off in time to grieve!Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:Tears kill the heart, believe.O strive not to be excellent in woe,Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
I saw my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to be advancéd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep,Her face was full of woe,But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:She made her sighs to sing,And all things with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught elseThe world can show, leave off in time to grieve!Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:Tears kill the heart, believe.O strive not to be excellent in woe,Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
Anon.
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:—O no! it is an ever-fixéd markThat looks on tempests, and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:—If this be error, and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:—
O no! it is an ever-fixéd markThat looks on tempests, and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:—
If this be error, and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
W. Shakespeare
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange one for another given:I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,There never was a better bargain driven:My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.His heart in me keeps him and me in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:He loves my heart, for once it was his own,I cherish his because in me it bides:My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange one for another given:I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,There never was a better bargain driven:My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:He loves my heart, for once it was his own,I cherish his because in me it bides:My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
Sir P. Sidney
Though others may Her brow adoreYet more must I, that therein see far moreThan any other's eyes have power to see:She is to meMore than to any others she can be!I can discern more secret notesThat in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,Than any else besides have art to read:No looks proceedFrom those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
Though others may Her brow adoreYet more must I, that therein see far moreThan any other's eyes have power to see:She is to meMore than to any others she can be!I can discern more secret notesThat in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,Than any else besides have art to read:No looks proceedFrom those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
Anon.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swainAscend to heaven, in honour of my Love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyesTill heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swainAscend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyesTill heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
J. Sylvester
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?O stay and hear! your true-love's comingThat can sing both high and low;Trip no further, pretty sweeting,Journeys end in lovers meeting—Every wise man's son doth know.What is love? 'tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What's to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty,—Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,Youth's a stuff will not endure.
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?O stay and hear! your true-love's comingThat can sing both high and low;Trip no further, pretty sweeting,Journeys end in lovers meeting—Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What's to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty,—Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,Youth's a stuff will not endure.
W. Shakespeare
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,Good penny-worths,—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true—The heart is true.Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;My trifles come as treasures from my mind;It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:—Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,Good penny-worths,—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true—The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;My trifles come as treasures from my mind;It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:—Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!
Anon.
When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail;When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owlTu-whit!Tu-who! A merry note!While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all about the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw;When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—Then nightly sings the staring owlTu-whit!Tu-who! A merry note!While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail;When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owlTu-whit!Tu-who! A merry note!While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all about the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw;When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—Then nightly sings the staring owlTu-whit!Tu-who! A merry note!While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
W. Shakespeare
That time of year thou may'st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:In me thou see'st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lieAs the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:—This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
That time of year thou may'st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
In me thou see'st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lieAs the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
—This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
W. Shakespeare
When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o'erThe sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before:—But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o'erThe sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before:
—But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
W. Shakespeare
Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head:And if these things, as being thine in right,Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head:And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
Sir P. Sidney
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shoreSo do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.Nativity, once in the main of light,Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:—And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall standPraising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shoreSo do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:—
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall standPraising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
W. Shakespeare
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate.For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgment making.Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
W. Shakespeare
They that have power to hurt, and will do none,That do not do the thing they most do show,Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,—They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,And husband nature's riches from expense;They are the lords and owners of their faces,Others, but stewards of their excellence.The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself it only live and die;But if that flower with base infection meet,The basest weed outbraves his dignity:For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
They that have power to hurt, and will do none,That do not do the thing they most do show,Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,—
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,And husband nature's riches from expense;They are the lords and owners of their faces,Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself it only live and die;But if that flower with base infection meet,The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
W. Shakespeare
And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay! for shame,To save thee from the blameOf all my grief and grame.And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath loved thee so longIn wealth and woe among:And is thy heart so strongAs for to leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath given thee my heartNever for to departNeither for pain nor smart:And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,And have no more pityOf him that loveth thee?Alas! thy cruelty!And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay! for shame,To save thee from the blameOf all my grief and grame.And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath loved thee so longIn wealth and woe among:And is thy heart so strongAs for to leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath given thee my heartNever for to departNeither for pain nor smart:And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,And have no more pityOf him that loveth thee?Alas! thy cruelty!And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!
Sir T. Wyat
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Every thing did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull'st dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Teru, teru, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.—Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Every thing did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull'st dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Teru, teru, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.—Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
R. Barnefield
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,Relieve my languish, and restore the light;With dark forgetting of my care return.And let the day be time enough to mournThe shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,Without the torment of the night's untruth.Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,To model forth the passions of the morrow;Never let rising Sun approve you liars,To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,Relieve my languish, and restore the light;With dark forgetting of my care return.
And let the day be time enough to mournThe shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,To model forth the passions of the morrow;Never let rising Sun approve you liars,To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
S. Daniel
The nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppressethFor Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.Alas, she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was broken.But I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
The nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppressethFor Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas, she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was broken.But I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Sir P. Sidney
Take, O take those lips awayThat so sweetly were forsworn,And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again,Bring again—Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,Seal'd in vain!
Take, O take those lips awayThat so sweetly were forsworn,And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again,Bring again—Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,Seal'd in vain!
W. Shakespeare
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—Nay I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free;Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—Nay I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And innocence is closing up his eyes,
—Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
M. Drayton
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as nightAnd she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv'st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,That so have scorchéd theeAs thou still black must beTill her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;—And this the black unhappy shade divineth.Follow still, since so thy fates ordainéd!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainéd.
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as nightAnd she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv'st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,That so have scorchéd theeAs thou still black must beTill her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;—And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordainéd!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainéd.
T. Campion
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my headWhich have no correspondence with true sight:Or if they have, where is my judgment fledThat censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove's eye is not so true as all men's: No,How can it? O how can love's eye be true,That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?No marvel then though I mistake my view:The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my headWhich have no correspondence with true sight:Or if they have, where is my judgment fledThat censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
How can it? O how can love's eye be true,That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?No marvel then though I mistake my view:The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
W. Shakespeare
Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?It shall suffice me here to sit and seeThose lips shut up that never kindly spoke:What sight can more content a lover's mindThan beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:Dreams often more than waking passions move.Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:That she in peace may wake and pity me.
Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?It shall suffice me here to sit and seeThose lips shut up that never kindly spoke:What sight can more content a lover's mindThan beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:Dreams often more than waking passions move.Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:That she in peace may wake and pity me.
T. Campion
While that the sun with his beams hotScorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,Philon the shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain,In shadow of a green oak treeUpon his pipe this song play'd he:Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.So long as I was in your sightI was your heart, your soul, and treasure;And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'dBurning in flames beyond all measure:—Three days endured your love to me,And it was lost in other three!Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Another Shepherd you did seeTo whom your heart was soon enchainéd;Full soon your love was leapt from me,Full soon my place he had obtainéd.Soon came a third, your love to win,And we were out and he was in.Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Sure you have made me passing gladThat you your mind so soon removéd,Before that I the leisure hadTo choose you for my best belovéd:For all your love was past and doneTwo days before it was begun:—Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
While that the sun with his beams hotScorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,Philon the shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain,In shadow of a green oak treeUpon his pipe this song play'd he:Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
So long as I was in your sightI was your heart, your soul, and treasure;And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'dBurning in flames beyond all measure:—Three days endured your love to me,And it was lost in other three!Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another Shepherd you did seeTo whom your heart was soon enchainéd;Full soon your love was leapt from me,Full soon my place he had obtainéd.Soon came a third, your love to win,And we were out and he was in.Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing gladThat you your mind so soon removéd,Before that I the leisure hadTo choose you for my best belovéd:For all your love was past and doneTwo days before it was begun:—Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Anon.