114. MARK ALEXANDER BOYD Sonet 1563-1601 FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, 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, Unhappy is the man for evermair That tills the sand and sawis in the air; 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, Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. 116. 2246 I MICHAEL DRAYTON To His Coy Love PRAY thee, leave, love me no more, I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite— Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starvèd? 1563-1631 Show me no more those snowy breasts Clip me no more in those dear arms, 117. But see how patient I am grown Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, The Parting INCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part SINCE Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; -Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 118. Sirena EAR to the silver Trent NEAR SIRENA dwelleth ; She to whom Nature lent All that excelleth ; Have for their greater state Taken their places; Wherewith to crown her, As it belong'd to them Most to renown her. 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 For as my precious one On thy bank... Our mournful Philomel, That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complain 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, Striving to cheer her: And when she from his sight He, as it had been night, In clouds hath mournèd. The verdant meads are seen, Broad itself spreadeth, Nor flower is so sweet In this large cincture, But it upon her feet The fishes in the flood, When she doth angle, |