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, 1555?-1615?

DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA.

D

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 careful king;

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me.

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.

L

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

OVE 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.