Amid my bale I bathe in bliss,I swim in Heaven, I sink in hell:I find amends for every miss,And yet my moan no tongue can tell.I live and love (what would you more?)As never lover lived before.I laugh sometimes with little lust,So jest I oft and feel no joy;Mine eye is builded all on trust,And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.I live and lack, I lack and have;I have and miss the thing I crave.Then like the lark that passed the nightIn heavy sleep with cares oppressed;Yet when she spies the pleasant light,She sends sweet notes from out her breast;So sing I now because I thinkHow joys approach when sorrows shrink.And as fair Philomene againCan watch and sing when others sleep;And taketh pleasure in her pain,To wray the woe that makes her weep;So sing I now for to bewrayThe loathsome life I lead alway.The which to thee, dear wench, I write,Thou know'st my mirth but not my moan;I pray God grant thee deep delight,To live in joys when I am gone.I cannot live; it will not be:I die to think to part from thee.
Amid my bale I bathe in bliss,I swim in Heaven, I sink in hell:I find amends for every miss,And yet my moan no tongue can tell.I live and love (what would you more?)As never lover lived before.
I laugh sometimes with little lust,So jest I oft and feel no joy;Mine eye is builded all on trust,And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.I live and lack, I lack and have;I have and miss the thing I crave.
Then like the lark that passed the nightIn heavy sleep with cares oppressed;Yet when she spies the pleasant light,She sends sweet notes from out her breast;So sing I now because I thinkHow joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene againCan watch and sing when others sleep;And taketh pleasure in her pain,To wray the woe that makes her weep;So sing I now for to bewrayThe loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,Thou know'st my mirth but not my moan;I pray God grant thee deep delight,To live in joys when I am gone.I cannot live; it will not be:I die to think to part from thee.
George Gascoigne.
TO PHYLLIS, THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS.
My Phyllis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her:And Phyllis hath morn-waking birdsHer rising still to honour.My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowersThat smile when she treads on them:And Phyllis hath a gallant flockThat leaps since she doth own them.But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,Alas, that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desertNor peace to those that crave it.Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,Pray her regard my moan!Sweet birds, when you sing to her,To yield some pity woo her!Sweet flowers, that she treads on,Tell her, her beauty dreads one;And if in life her love she'll not agree me,Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
My Phyllis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her:And Phyllis hath morn-waking birdsHer rising still to honour.My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowersThat smile when she treads on them:And Phyllis hath a gallant flockThat leaps since she doth own them.But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,Alas, that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desertNor peace to those that crave it.Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,Pray her regard my moan!Sweet birds, when you sing to her,To yield some pity woo her!Sweet flowers, that she treads on,Tell her, her beauty dreads one;And if in life her love she'll not agree me,Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
Sir Edward Dyer.
THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD.
O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed!Thou mak'st my heartA bloody mark,With piercing shot to bleed.Shoot soft, sweet Love! for fear thou shoot amiss,For fear too keenThy arrows been,And hit the heart where my Belovèd is.Too fair that fortune were, nor never IShall be so blest,Among the rest,That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,This doth remainTo cease my pain:I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot.
O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed!Thou mak'st my heartA bloody mark,With piercing shot to bleed.
Shoot soft, sweet Love! for fear thou shoot amiss,For fear too keenThy arrows been,And hit the heart where my Belovèd is.
Too fair that fortune were, nor never IShall be so blest,Among the rest,That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.
Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,This doth remainTo cease my pain:I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot.
George Peele.
HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
Shall I like a hermit dwell,On a rock, or in a cell,Calling home the smallest partThat is missing of my heart,To bestow it where I mayMeet a rival every day?If she undervalue me,What care I how fair she be?Were her tresses angel gold,If a stranger may be bold,Unrebuked, unafraid,To convert them to a braid,And with little more adoWork them into bracelets too?If the mine be grown so free,What care I how rich it be?Were her hand as rich a prizeAs her hairs, or precious eyes,If she lay them out to takeKisses, for good manners' sake:And let every lover skipFrom her hand unto her lip;If she seem not chaste to me,What care I how chaste she be?No; she must be perfect snow,In effect as well as show;Warming, but as snowballs do,Not like fire, by burning too;But when she by change hath gotTo her heart a second lot,Then if others share with me,Farewell her, whate'er she be!
Shall I like a hermit dwell,On a rock, or in a cell,Calling home the smallest partThat is missing of my heart,To bestow it where I mayMeet a rival every day?If she undervalue me,What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel gold,If a stranger may be bold,Unrebuked, unafraid,To convert them to a braid,And with little more adoWork them into bracelets too?If the mine be grown so free,What care I how rich it be?
Were her hand as rich a prizeAs her hairs, or precious eyes,If she lay them out to takeKisses, for good manners' sake:And let every lover skipFrom her hand unto her lip;If she seem not chaste to me,What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,In effect as well as show;Warming, but as snowballs do,Not like fire, by burning too;But when she by change hath gotTo her heart a second lot,Then if others share with me,Farewell her, whate'er she be!
Sir Walter Raleigh.
THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.
"Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell!"—It is that fountain, and that well,Where pleasure and repentance dwell;It is, perhaps, that passing bellThat tolls us all to heaven or hell;And this is love, as I heard tell."Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine!"—It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;It is a toothache, or like pain;It is a game where none doth gain:The lass saith No, and would full fain!And this is love, as I hear saine."Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"—It is a "Yea," it is a "Nay,"A pretty kind of sporting fray;It is a thing will soon away;Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may,And this is love, as I hear say."Yet what is love? good shepherd, show!"—A thing that creeps, it cannot go,A prize that passeth to and fro,A thing for one, a thing for moe;And he that proves shall find it so;And, shepherd, this is love, I trow.
"Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell!"—It is that fountain, and that well,Where pleasure and repentance dwell;It is, perhaps, that passing bellThat tolls us all to heaven or hell;And this is love, as I heard tell.
"Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine!"—It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;It is a toothache, or like pain;It is a game where none doth gain:The lass saith No, and would full fain!And this is love, as I hear saine.
"Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"—It is a "Yea," it is a "Nay,"A pretty kind of sporting fray;It is a thing will soon away;Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may,And this is love, as I hear say.
"Yet what is love? good shepherd, show!"—A thing that creeps, it cannot go,A prize that passeth to and fro,A thing for one, a thing for moe;And he that proves shall find it so;And, shepherd, this is love, I trow.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
THE SHEPHERDESS'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.
If all the world and Love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.But time drives flocks from field to fold,When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;Then Philomel becometh dumb,The rest complains of cares to come.The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring: but sorrow's fall.Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,Thy cup, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;—In folly ripe, in reason rotten.The belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can move,To come to thee, and be thy love.What should we talk of dainties, then,Of better meat than's fit for men?These are but vain: that's only goodWhich God hath bless'd and sent for food.But could youth last, and love still breed;Had joys no date, nor age no need;Then those delights my mind might move,To live with thee, and be thy love.
If all the world and Love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;Then Philomel becometh dumb,The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring: but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,Thy cup, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;—In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
The belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can move,To come to thee, and be thy love.
What should we talk of dainties, then,Of better meat than's fit for men?These are but vain: that's only goodWhich God hath bless'd and sent for food.
But could youth last, and love still breed;Had joys no date, nor age no need;Then those delights my mind might move,To live with thee, and be thy love.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
[See "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," page 50.]
LOVE FOR LOVE.
Away with these self-loving ladsWhom Cupid's arrow never glads!Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep,In love of them that lie and sleep!For Cupid is a merry god,And forceth none to kiss the rod.Sweet Cupid's shafts, like Destiny,Do causeless good or ill decree;Desert is borne out of his bow,Reward upon his wing doth go:What fools are they that have not knownThat Love likes no laws but his own!My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise:I wear her rings on holy days;On every tree I write her name,And every day I read the same:Where Honour Cupid's rival is,There miracles are seen of his.If Cynthia crave her ring of me,I blot her name out of the tree;If doubt do darken things held dear,Then "farewell nothing," once a year:For many run, but one must win;Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.The worth that worthiness should moveIs love, which is the due of love;And love as well the shepherd canAs can the mighty nobleman:—Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be;Yet, without love, nought worth to me.
Away with these self-loving ladsWhom Cupid's arrow never glads!Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep,In love of them that lie and sleep!For Cupid is a merry god,And forceth none to kiss the rod.
Sweet Cupid's shafts, like Destiny,Do causeless good or ill decree;Desert is borne out of his bow,Reward upon his wing doth go:What fools are they that have not knownThat Love likes no laws but his own!
My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise:I wear her rings on holy days;On every tree I write her name,And every day I read the same:Where Honour Cupid's rival is,There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,I blot her name out of the tree;If doubt do darken things held dear,Then "farewell nothing," once a year:For many run, but one must win;Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness should moveIs love, which is the due of love;And love as well the shepherd canAs can the mighty nobleman:—Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be;Yet, without love, nought worth to me.
Fulke-Greville, Lord Brooke.
CUPID AND MY CAMPASPE: APELLES' SONG.
Cupid and my Campaspe playedAt cards for kisses: Cupid paid.He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows,His mother's doves and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on 's cheek, but none knows how;With these the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin—All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes.—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love, has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?
Cupid and my Campaspe playedAt cards for kisses: Cupid paid.He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows,His mother's doves and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on 's cheek, but none knows how;With these the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin—All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes.—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love, has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?
John Lyly.
A DITTY.
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange one to the other 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 to the other 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 Philip Sidney.
LOVE IS DEAD.
Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread;For Love is dead:All Love is dead, infectedWith plague of deep disdain:Worth, as nought worth, rejected,And Faith fair scorn doth gain.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it saidThat Love is dead?His death-bed, peacock's folly;His winding-sheet is shame;His will, false-seeming holy;His sole executor, blame.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,For Love is dead;Sir Wrong his tomb ordainethMy mistress' marble heart;Which epitaph containeth,Her eyes were once his dart.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred;Love is not dead;Love is not dead, but sleepethIn his unmatchèd mind,Where she his counsel keepeth,Till due deserts she find:Therefore from so vile fancy,To call such wit a franzy,Who Love can temper thus,Good Lord, deliver us!
Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread;For Love is dead:All Love is dead, infectedWith plague of deep disdain:Worth, as nought worth, rejected,And Faith fair scorn doth gain.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!
Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it saidThat Love is dead?His death-bed, peacock's folly;His winding-sheet is shame;His will, false-seeming holy;His sole executor, blame.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,For Love is dead;Sir Wrong his tomb ordainethMy mistress' marble heart;Which epitaph containeth,Her eyes were once his dart.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord, deliver us!
Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred;Love is not dead;Love is not dead, but sleepethIn his unmatchèd mind,Where she his counsel keepeth,Till due deserts she find:Therefore from so vile fancy,To call such wit a franzy,Who Love can temper thus,Good Lord, deliver us!
Sir Philip Sidney.
HE THAT LOVES.
He that loves and fears to try,Learns his mistress to deny.Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show itThat thy coldness makes her do it.Is she silent, is she mute?Silence fully grants thy suit.Doth she pout and leave the room?Then she goes to bid thee come.Is she sick? why then be sureShe invites thee to the cure.Doth she cross thy suit with "No"?Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.Doth she call the faith of menIn question? nay, she loves thee then,And if e'er she makes a blot,She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.He that after ten denialsDoth attempt no further trials,Hath no warrant to acquireThe dainties of his chaste desire.
He that loves and fears to try,Learns his mistress to deny.Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show itThat thy coldness makes her do it.Is she silent, is she mute?Silence fully grants thy suit.Doth she pout and leave the room?Then she goes to bid thee come.
Is she sick? why then be sureShe invites thee to the cure.Doth she cross thy suit with "No"?Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.Doth she call the faith of menIn question? nay, she loves thee then,And if e'er she makes a blot,She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.
He that after ten denialsDoth attempt no further trials,Hath no warrant to acquireThe dainties of his chaste desire.
Sir Philip Sidney.
LOVE'S WANTONNESS.
Love guards the roses of thy lips,And flies about them like a bee:If I approach, he forward skips,And if I kiss, he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look, the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt, it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,Then will I praise thy deity,But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Love guards the roses of thy lips,And flies about them like a bee:If I approach, he forward skips,And if I kiss, he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look, the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt, it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,Then will I praise thy deity,But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Thomas Lodge.
ROSALINE.
Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded, or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The Gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus' smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, for Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The Gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there's fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded, or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The Gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phœbus' smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, for Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The Gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there's fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
Thomas Lodge.
THE MAY QUEEN.
With fragrant flowers we strew the way,And make this our chief holiday;For though this clime were blest of yore,Yet was it never proud before.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm,And satyrs dance about the palm;Now earth, with verdure newly dight,Gives perfect signs of her delight.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!Now birds recall new harmony,And trees do whistle melody;Now everything that nature breeds,Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!
With fragrant flowers we strew the way,And make this our chief holiday;For though this clime were blest of yore,Yet was it never proud before.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!
Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm,And satyrs dance about the palm;Now earth, with verdure newly dight,Gives perfect signs of her delight.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!
Now birds recall new harmony,And trees do whistle melody;Now everything that nature breeds,Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.O beauteous Queen of second Troy,Accept of our unfeignèd joy!
Thomas Watson.
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
In the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,With a troop of damsels playing,Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,When anon by a woodside,Where as May was in his pride,I espied, all alone,Phillida and Corydon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love, and she would not:She said, never man was true:He said, none was false to you.He said, he had loved her long:She said, love should have no wrong.Corydon would kiss her then,She said, maids must kiss no men,Till they do for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truth,Never loved a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea, and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not love abuse;Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded:And Phillida with garlands gay,Was made the lady of the May.
In the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,With a troop of damsels playing,Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,When anon by a woodside,Where as May was in his pride,I espied, all alone,Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!He would love, and she would not:She said, never man was true:He said, none was false to you.He said, he had loved her long:She said, love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then,She said, maids must kiss no men,Till they do for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truth,Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea, and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not love abuse;Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded:And Phillida with garlands gay,Was made the lady of the May.
Richard Breton.
SHALL I COME, SWEET LOVE?
Shall I come, sweet Love, to theeWhen the evening beams are set?Shall I not excluded be,Will you find no feigned let?Let me not, for pity, moreTell the long hours at your door.Who can tell what thief or foe,In the covert of the night,For his prey will work my woe,Or through wicked foul despite?So may I die unredrestEre my long love be possest.But to let such dangers pass,Which a lover's thoughts disdain,'Tis enough in such a placeTo attend love's joys in vain:Do not mock me in thy bed,While these cold nights freeze me dead.
Shall I come, sweet Love, to theeWhen the evening beams are set?Shall I not excluded be,Will you find no feigned let?Let me not, for pity, moreTell the long hours at your door.
Who can tell what thief or foe,In the covert of the night,For his prey will work my woe,Or through wicked foul despite?So may I die unredrestEre my long love be possest.
But to let such dangers pass,Which a lover's thoughts disdain,'Tis enough in such a placeTo attend love's joys in vain:Do not mock me in thy bed,While these cold nights freeze me dead.
Thomas Campion.
CHERRY-RIPE.
There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow.Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat'ning with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow.Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat'ning with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion.
FAIR SAMELA.
Like to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela;Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,When wash'd by Arethusa's fount they lie,Is fair Samela;As fair Aurora in her morning gray,Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love,Is fair Samela;Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day,Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,Shines fair Samela;Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams,Her brows, bright arches fram'd of ebony;Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty,(For she's Samela!)Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignityYield to Samela.
Like to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela;
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,When wash'd by Arethusa's fount they lie,Is fair Samela;
As fair Aurora in her morning gray,Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love,Is fair Samela;
Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day,Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,Shines fair Samela;
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;
Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams,Her brows, bright arches fram'd of ebony;Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty,(For she's Samela!)
Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignityYield to Samela.
Robert Greene.
KINDS OF LOVE.
Foolish love is only folly;Wanton love is too unholy;Greedy love is covetous;Idle love is frivolous;But the gracious love is itThat doth prove the work of wit.Beauty but deceives the eye;Flattery leads the ear awry;Wealth doth but enchant the wit;Want, the overthrow of it;While in Wisdom's worthy grace,Virtue sees the sweetest face.There hath Love found out his life,Peace without all thought of strife;Kindness in Discretion's care;Truth, that clearly doth declareFaith doth in true fancy prove,Lust the excrements of Love.Then in faith may fancy seeHow my love may construèd be;How it grows and what it seeks;How it lives and what it likes;So in highest grace regard it,Or in lowest scorn discard it.
Foolish love is only folly;Wanton love is too unholy;Greedy love is covetous;Idle love is frivolous;But the gracious love is itThat doth prove the work of wit.
Beauty but deceives the eye;Flattery leads the ear awry;Wealth doth but enchant the wit;Want, the overthrow of it;While in Wisdom's worthy grace,Virtue sees the sweetest face.
There hath Love found out his life,Peace without all thought of strife;Kindness in Discretion's care;Truth, that clearly doth declareFaith doth in true fancy prove,Lust the excrements of Love.
Then in faith may fancy seeHow my love may construèd be;How it grows and what it seeks;How it lives and what it likes;So in highest grace regard it,Or in lowest scorn discard it.
Robert Greene.
LOVE AND BEAUTY.
Pretty twinkling starry eyes,How did Nature first deviseSuch a sparkling in your sightAs to give Love such delight,As to make him like a fly,Play with looks until he die?Sure ye were not made at firstFor such mischief to be curst;As to kill Affection's careThat doth only truth declare;Where worth's wonders never wither,Love and Beauty live together.Blessed eyes, then give your blessing,That in passion's best expressing;Love that only lives to grace ye,May not suffer pride deface ye;But in gentle thought's directionsShow the power of your perfections.
Pretty twinkling starry eyes,How did Nature first deviseSuch a sparkling in your sightAs to give Love such delight,As to make him like a fly,Play with looks until he die?
Sure ye were not made at firstFor such mischief to be curst;As to kill Affection's careThat doth only truth declare;Where worth's wonders never wither,Love and Beauty live together.
Blessed eyes, then give your blessing,That in passion's best expressing;Love that only lives to grace ye,May not suffer pride deface ye;But in gentle thought's directionsShow the power of your perfections.
Robert Greene.
LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.
Love mistress is of many minds,Yet few know whom they serve;They reckon least how little hopeTheir service doth deserve.The will she robbeth from the wit,The sense from reason's lore;She is delightful in the rind,Corrupted in the core.May never was the month of love,For May is full of flowers;But rather April, wet by kind;For love is full of showers.With soothing words inthrallèd soulsShe chains in servile bands!Her eye in silence hath a speechWhich eye best understands.Her little sweet hath many sours,Short hap, immortal harms;Her loving looks are murdering darts,Her songs bewitching charms.Like winter rose, and summer ice,Her joys are still untimely;Before her hope, behind remorse,Fair first, in fine unseemly.Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,Leave off your idle pain;Seek other mistress for your minds,Love's service is in vain.
Love mistress is of many minds,Yet few know whom they serve;They reckon least how little hopeTheir service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit,The sense from reason's lore;She is delightful in the rind,Corrupted in the core.
May never was the month of love,For May is full of flowers;But rather April, wet by kind;For love is full of showers.
With soothing words inthrallèd soulsShe chains in servile bands!Her eye in silence hath a speechWhich eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours,Short hap, immortal harms;Her loving looks are murdering darts,Her songs bewitching charms.
Like winter rose, and summer ice,Her joys are still untimely;Before her hope, behind remorse,Fair first, in fine unseemly.
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,Leave off your idle pain;Seek other mistress for your minds,Love's service is in vain.
Robert Southwell.
THE HEART OF STONE.
Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose!It was from cheeks that shame the rose,From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:Whence comes my woe? as freely own;Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,The lips befitting words most kind,The eye does tempt to love's desire,And seems to say, "'Tis Cupid's fire;"Yet all so fair but speak my moan,Since nought doth say the heart of stone.Why thus, my love, so kind bespeakSweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,—Yet not a heart to save my pain?O Venus, take thy gifts again!Make not so fair to cause our moan,Or make a heart that's like your own.
Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose!It was from cheeks that shame the rose,From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:Whence comes my woe? as freely own;Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,The lips befitting words most kind,The eye does tempt to love's desire,And seems to say, "'Tis Cupid's fire;"Yet all so fair but speak my moan,Since nought doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind bespeakSweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,—Yet not a heart to save my pain?O Venus, take thy gifts again!Make not so fair to cause our moan,Or make a heart that's like your own.
John Harrington.
A SHEPHERD'S SONG TO HIS LOVE.
Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly,White as the sun, fair as the lily,Heigh-ho, how I do love thee!I do love thee as my lambsAre belovèd of their dams:How blest I were if thou would'st prove me!Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,Fair sweet, how I do love thee!I do love thee as each flowerLoves the sun's life-giving power;For, dead, thy breath to life might move me.Diaphenia, like to all things blessèd,When all thy praises are expressèd,Dear joy, how I do love thee!As the birds do love the spring,Or the bees their careful king:Then, in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly,White as the sun, fair as the lily,Heigh-ho, how I do love thee!I do love thee as my lambsAre belovèd of their dams:How blest I were if thou would'st prove me!
Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,Fair sweet, how I do love thee!I do love thee as each flowerLoves the sun's life-giving power;For, dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia, like to all things blessèd,When all thy praises are expressèd,Dear joy, how I do love thee!As the birds do love the spring,Or the bees their careful king:Then, in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
Henry Constable.
LOVE NOW, FOR ROSES FADE.
Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush, and summer's honour!Whilst yet her tender bud doth undiscloseThat full of beauty Time bestows upon her:No sooner spreads her glory in the air,But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair.So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!No April can revive thy withered flowers,Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now:Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.
Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush, and summer's honour!Whilst yet her tender bud doth undiscloseThat full of beauty Time bestows upon her:No sooner spreads her glory in the air,But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair.So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy withered flowers,Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now:Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.
Samuel Daniel.
EARLY LOVE.
Ah! I remember well (and how can IBut evermore remember well) when firstOur flame began, when scarce we knew what wasThe flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'dAnd look'd upon each other, and conceivedNot what we ail'd—yet something we did ail;And yet were well, and yet we were not well,And what was our disease we could not tell.Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thusIn that first garden of our simplenessWe spent our childhood. But when years beganTo reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how thenWould she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow,Check my presumption and my forwardness;Yet still would give me flowers, still would me showWhat she would have me, yet not have me know.
Ah! I remember well (and how can IBut evermore remember well) when firstOur flame began, when scarce we knew what wasThe flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'dAnd look'd upon each other, and conceivedNot what we ail'd—yet something we did ail;And yet were well, and yet we were not well,And what was our disease we could not tell.Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thusIn that first garden of our simplenessWe spent our childhood. But when years beganTo reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how thenWould she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow,Check my presumption and my forwardness;Yet still would give me flowers, still would me showWhat she would have me, yet not have me know.
Samuel Daniel.
LOVE IS A SICKNESS.
Love is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that most with cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,Heigh-ho!Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,Heigh-ho!
Love is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that most with cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,Heigh-ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,Heigh-ho!
Samuel Daniel.
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.