Thy modest life yet bridles my desire,
Whose law severe doth promise me no grace.
But what! may love live under any law?
No, no, his power exceedeth man's conceit,
Of which the gods themselves do stand in awe,
For on his frown a thousand torments wait.
Proceed, then, in this desperate enterprise
With good advice, and follow love, thy guide,
That leads thee to thy wished paradise:
Thy climbing thoughts this comfort take withal,
That if it be thy foul disgrace to slide,
Thy brave attempt shall yet excuse thy fall.
AMID the seas a gallant ship set out,
Wherein nor men nor yet 'munition lacks,
In greatest winds that spareth not a clout,
But cuts the waves in spite of weather's wrack,
Would force a swain that comes of coward kind,
To change himself, and be of noble mind.
Who makes his seat a stately stamping steed, Whose neighs and plays are princely to behold; Whose courage stout, whose eyes are fiery red, Whose joints well knit, whose harness all of gold, Doth well deserve to be no meaner thing
Than Persian knight, whose horse made him a king,
By that bedside where sits a gallant dame,
Who casteth off her brave and rich attire,
Whose petticoat sets forth as fair a frame
As mortal men or gods can well desire;
Who sits and sees her petticoat unlaced,
say no more—the rest are all disgraced.
SONGS FROM WEELKES'S MADRIGALS. EDIT. 1604.
LIKE two proud armies marching in the field,
Joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield,
So in my heart your beauty and my reason,
To th' other says, its treason, treason, treason:
But your fair beauty shineth as the sun,
And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.
No, no, no- -No, no, no.
But since my dear doth doubt me,
With no, no, no, I mean to flout thee;
Now there is hope we shall agree,
Since double no imparteth yea;
If that be so, my dearest,
With no, no, no, my heart thou cheerest.
COLD winter ice is fled and gone,
And summer brags on every tree;
The red-breast peeps among the throng
Of wood-brown birds that wanton be:
Each one forgets what they have been,
And so doth Phyllis, summer's queen,
HOLD out my heart, with joy's delights accloy'd; Hold out my heart and shew it,
That all the world may know it,
What sweet content thou lately hast enjoy'd.
She that "Come, dear!" would say,
Then laugh, and smile, and run away;
And if I stay'd her would cry nay,
Fy for shame, fy.
My true love not regarding,
Hath giv'n me at length his full rewarding,
So that unless I tell
The joys that overfill me,
My joys, kept in full well,
I know will kill me.
SAY, dear, will you not have me?
Then take the kiss you gave me ;
You elsewhere would, perhaps, bestow it,
And I would be as loth to owe it;
Or if you will not take the thing once given,
Let me kiss you, and then we shall be even.
FROM BATESON'S MADRIGALS.
LOVE would discharge the duty of his heart
In beauty's praise, whose greatness doth deny
Words to his thoughts, and thoughts to his desert;
Which high conceit, since nothing can supply,
Love here constrained through conquest to confess,
Bids silence sigh what tongue cannot express.
WHITHER SO fast? Ah, see the kindly flowers
Perfume the air, and all to make thee stay;
The climbing woodbind, clipping all these bowers,
Clips thee likewise, for fear thou pass away:
Fortune, our friend, our foe, will not gainsay:
Stay but awhile, Phœbe no tell-tale is,
She her Endymion-I'll my Phœbe kiss.
YET stay, alway be chained to my heart
With links of love, that we do never part;
Then I'll not call thee serpent, tiger, cruel,
But my sweet Gemma, and my dearest jewel.
FROM ENGLAND'S HELICON.
COME away, come, sweet love!
The golden morning breaks,
All the earth, all the air,
Of love and pleasure speaks;
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss:
Eyes were made for beauty's grace;
Viewing, ruing, love's long pain,
Procured by beauty's rude disdain.
Come away, come, sweet love!
The golden morning wastes,
While the sun from his sphere
His fiery arrows casts,
Making all the shadows fly,
Playing, staying, in the grove,
To entertain the stealth of love;
Thither, sweet love, let us hie,
Flying, dying, in desire,
Wing'd with sweet hopes and heavenly fire.
Come, come, sweet love!
Do not in vain adorn
Beauty's grace, that should rise
Like to the naked morn.
Lilies on the river's side,
And fair Cyprian flow'rs newly blown,
Ask no beauties but their own.
Ornament is nurse of pride
|