87. Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear? 1553-1633 ANTHONY MUNDAY Beauty Bathing EAUTY sat bathing by a spring, BEAU Where fairest shades did hide her; The cool streams ran beside her. Into a slumber then I fell, And fond imagination Seemed to see, but could not tell, Her feature or her fashion : But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile, So I awaked as wise that while 88. MY The Bargain Y true love hath my heart, and I have his, I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 1554-86 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 89. My true love hath my heart, and I have his. Song WHO hath his fancy pleasèd With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raisèd On Nature's sweetest light; She never dies, but lasteth In love his chiefest part: Since she lives in his death. 90. Look then, and die! The pleasure Immortal is her mind; From sight of her fair eyes— On Nature's sweetest light! Voices at the Window WHO THO is it that, this dark night, It is one who from thy sight Every other vulgar light. Why, alas, and are you he? Be not yet those fancies changed? Dear, when you find change in me, Though from me you be estrangèd, Let my change to ruin be. 91. THE Well, in absence this will die : Can learn how myself to sunder But time will these thoughts remove; With time still the affection groweth What if you new beauties see? But your reason's purest light Bids you leave such minds to nourish. Philomela HE Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 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 expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 90. leave] cease. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish But 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. 92. Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. The Highway HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet Now blessed you bear onward blessed me Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, |