I joyed; but straight thus wat'red was my wine, Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, THOMAS LODGE 1556-1625 ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mines eyes he makes his nest, My kisses are his daily feast, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll count your power not worth a pin: If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee, Spare not, but play thee! ROSALINE LIKE to the clear in highest sphere Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud Or like the silver crimson shroud Her lips are like two budded roses Within which bounds she balm encloses Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck is like a stately tower Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Nature herself her shape admires; Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The 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! THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD'S SONG O SHADY vale, O fair enriched meads, O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains; O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads, Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains! O all ye winged choristers of wood, That perched aloft, your former pains report; And straight again recount with pleasant mood Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort! O all you creatures whosoever thrive On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire; More blest are you than I here under sun! Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive In you; I perish under Beauty's ire, Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won. ANONYMOUS I SAW MY LADY WEEP I SAW my Lady weep, In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; And all things with so sweet a sadness move O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, GEORGE PEELE 1558 (?)-1597 FAREWELL TO ARMS His golden locks time hath to silver turned; His helmet now shall make an hive for bees, |