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And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,-
*Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,

Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong!'
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

ROBERT GREENE

1560 (?)-1592

FAWNIA

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,

Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe!
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land

Under wide heavens, but yet I know not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,

Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,

Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower; Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,

For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.

Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour 's fled;

When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me thy west, Shine in mine arms, and set thou in my breast!

SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me.
He was glad, I was woe,
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy
Last his sorrow, first his joy.

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Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies ;
Thus be grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;

More he crowed, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

1562-1593

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night's foal vapour's fled;

When she is set, the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me thy sest,
Shipe in mine arms, and set thou in my breast!

SEPHBSTIA'S SONG TO HEB CHILD
WEEP Dot, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me.
He was glad, I was woe,
Portane changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy

Last his sorrow, first his jos.
Weep not, my wanton, stile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, sinile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's zriet esough for thee.

The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;

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More he crowed, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

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CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

1562-1593

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

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There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

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A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

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