Sivut kuvina

Sweet love, begone a while,

Thou seest my heaviness : Beauty is born but to beguile

My heart of happiness. See how my little flock,

That lov'd to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock,

And in the valley die. The bushes and the trees,

That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colours leese,

And not a leaf is seen.
The black-bird and the thrush,

That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush,

And not a note they sing. Sweet Philomel, the bird

That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now, alas! not once afford

Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,

The herbs have lost their savour; And Phillida the fair hath lost

For me her wonted favour.
Thus all these careful sights

So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights

It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet muse,

That know'st what help is best, Do now thy heavenly cunning use

To set my heart at rest. And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay,

Or when my sorrows end.


From Percy's Collection.
THE sturdy rock, for

all his strength, By raging seas is rent in twain; The marble stone is pierc'd, at length,

With little drops of drizzling rain;
The ox doth yield unto the yoke,
The steel obeyeth the hammer stroke.
The stately stag, that seems so stout,

By yelping hounds at bay is set;
The swiftest bird that flies about,

At length is caught in fowler's net :
The greatest fish, in deepest brook,
Is soon deceived by subtle hook.
Yea, man himself, unto whose will

All things are bounden to obey,
For all his wit and worthy skill,

Doth fade at length, and fall away.
There is nothing but time doth waste,
The heav'ns, the earth, consume at last.
But virtue sits triumphing still

the throne of glorious fame; hough spitetul death man's body kill,

Yet hurts he not his virtuous name.
By life or death whate'er betides,
The state of virtue never slides.

THE PRAISE OF AMARGANA. THE sun, the-season, in each thing

Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring Hath put to flight the winter keen, To glad our lovely summer queen.

The paths where Amargana treads
With flow'ry tapestries Flora spreads,
And nature clothes the ground in green,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
The groves put on their rich array,
With hawthorn-blooms embroider'd gay,
And sweet-perfumed with eglantine,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
The silent river stays his course,
Whilst, playing in the chrystal source,
The silver-scaled fish are seen
To glad our lovely summer queen.
The woods at her fair sight rejoice,
The little birds, with their loud voice,
In concert on the branches been,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
This feast and meeting bids us make,
Of shepherd lads, and lasses sheen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
And every swain his chance doth prove,
To win fair Amargana's love;
In sporting strifes, quite void of spleen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
All happiness let Heav'n her lend,
And all the Graces her attend;
Thus bid me pray the Muses nine,
Long live our lovely summer queen.

C. MARLOW. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. COME HOME 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, With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning : If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.



F that the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter's reckoning yield;
A honey tonguema heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cup, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy 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.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date-nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

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