93.

His Lady's Cruelty

ITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!

WITH

How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st
lover's case:

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
Το me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue' there-ungratefulness?

94.

6

Sleep

OME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw :
O make in me those civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
94. prease] press.

95. Splendidis longum valedico Nugis

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!

Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide

Who seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see: Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!

96.

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE

Myra

1554-1628

WITH whose colours Myra dress'd her head, 9 I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimneys read

By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play? I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found

A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arms was bound

That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,

And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

96. chimneys] cheminées, chimney-screens of tapestry work.

I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,

I, who did make her blush when I was named: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked?

Was it for this that I might Myra see

Washing the water with her beauty's white? Yet would she never write her love to me. Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight? Mad girls may safely love as they may leave; No man can print a kiss: lines may deceive.

97.

THOMAS LODGE

Rosalind's Madrigal

LOVE in my bosom like a bee

Doth suck his sweet:

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.

96. deceive] betray.

1556?-1625

98.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin.
-Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,

MY

Spare not, but play thee!

Phillis I

Y Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;

And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.

My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;

And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.

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 her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.