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Worth as nought worth rejected,

And faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus:

Good Lord deliver us.

Weep neighbours weep, do you not hear it said

That Love is dead ?
His death-bed peacocks folly,

His winding-sheet is shame :
His will false, seeming holy,

His sole executor blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use me thus :

Good Lord deliver us.

Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read,

For Love is dead.
And wrong his tomb ordaineth,

My mistress' marble heart :
Which epitaph containeth,

Her eyes were once his dart.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus :

Good Lord deliver us.

Alas ! I lie, rage hath this error bred,

Love is not dead.
Love is not dead, but sleepeth

In her unmatched mind :
Where she his counsel keepeth,

Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a frenzy,
Who love can temper thus :

Good Lord deliver us.

XVI.

HENRY CONSTABLE,

15552-1615?

DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA.

D'APLI

IAPHENIA like the daffadowndilly,

White as the sun, fair as the lily,
Heigh-ho, how I do love thee !
I do love thee as my lambs
Are beloved of their dams,

How blest were I if thou would'st prove me !

Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets incloses,

Fair sweet how I do love thee!
I do love thee as each flower
Loves the sun's life-giving power.

For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia like to all things blessed,
When all thy praises are expressed,

Dear joy, how I do love thee !
As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their caresul king ;

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me.

XVII.

THOMAS LODGE,

1557 ?- 1625 ?

MADRIGAL.

THE

earth late choked with showers

THE earth late choked with showers

Is now arrayed in green;
Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen,
The heavens laugh at her glory :
Yet bide I sad and sorry.

The woods are decked with leaves,

And trees are clothed gay,
And Flora crowned with sheaves

With oaken boughs doth play:
Where I am clad in black,
The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees

Do sing with pleasant voices,
And chant in their degrees

Their loves and lucky choices :
When I whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have :
They free, I thrall : they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.

XVIII.

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.

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