114.

MARK ALEXANDER BOYD

Sonet

1563-1601

FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;

Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,

Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.

Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,
Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;
The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,
And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.

Unhappy is the man for evermair

That tills the sand and sawis in the air;
But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,
That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,
And follows on a woman throw the fire,
Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.

115.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER

Ubique

WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

1563-1618

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main,

Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the Sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe'er I am,- below, or else above you—
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

116.

2246

I

MICHAEL DRAYTON

To His Coy Love

PRAY thee, leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me!

I but in vain that saint adore

That can but will not save me.

These poor half-kisses kill me quite—
Was ever man thus servèd?

Amidst an ocean of delight

For pleasure to be starvèd?

1563-1631

Show me no more those snowy breasts
With azure riverets branchèd,
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;
O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!
By me thou art prevented:
'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,
But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me,
O these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me!

117.

But see how patient I am grown
In all this coil about thee:

Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,
I cannot live without thee !

The Parting

INCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part

SINCE

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

-Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

118.

Sirena

EAR to the silver Trent

NEAR

SIRENA dwelleth ;

She to whom Nature lent

All that excelleth ;
By which the Muses late
And the neat Graces

Have for their greater state

Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem

Wherewith to crown her,

As it belong'd to them

Most to renown her.
On thy bank,

In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her, And with their music

Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus

Are to thee debtor,

Nor for their gold to us
Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
Puts them down ever.

For as my precious one
O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.

On thy bank...

Our mournful Philomel,

That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil

Shall wake the sooner,

And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain

Over and over:

For when my Love too long

Her chamber keepeth,

As though it suffer'd wrong,

The Morning weepeth.

On thy bank

Oft have I seen the Sun,
To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,
With his flames from above

Striving to cheer her:

And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnèd,

He, as it had been night,

In clouds hath mournèd.
On thy bank

The verdant meads are seen,
When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Straight to renew them;
And every little grass

Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth:

Nor flower is so sweet

In this large cincture,

But it upon her feet
Leaveth some tincture.
On thy bank

The fishes in the flood,

When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land,
From the clear water,