But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my Mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a Goddess go,

My Mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my Love as rare
As any She belied with false compare.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment! Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken :

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

ROBERT DEVEREUX.

(EARL OF ESSEX.) 1568-1601.

THE FALSE FORGOTTEN.

Change thy mind since she doth change!
Let not fancy still abuse thee!
Thy untruth can not seem strange
When her falsehood doth excuse thee.

Love is dead, and thou art free :

She doth live, but dead to thee.

When she loved thee best a while,

See how still she did delay thee: Using shows for to beguile,

Those vain hopes which have betray'd thee ! Now thou see'st, but all too late,

Love loves truth, which women hate.

Love! farewell! more dear to me
Than my life which thou preservedst.
Life! thy joy is gone from thee;
Others have what thou deservedst :
They enjoy what's not their own.
Happier life to live alone!

Yet, thus much to ease my mind,—
Let her know what she hath gotten :
She whom time hath proved unkind,

Having changed, is quite forgotten:
For time now hath done her worst.
Would she had done so at first!

Love no more, since she is gone!
She is gone, and loves another :
Being once deceived by one,

Leave to love, and love no other!
She was false, bid her adieu!
She was best, but yet untrue.

BARNABE BARNES.

1568-9-1609.

PARTHENOPHE.

Why doth heaven bear a sun

To give the world an heat?
Why there have stars a seat?
On earth (when all is done)
Parthenophe's bright sun
Doth give a greater heat.

And in her heaven there be
Such fair bright blazing stars,
Which still make open wars
With those in heaven's degree :
These stars far brighter be

Than brightest of heaven's stars.

Why doth earth bring forth roses,
Violets, or lilies,

Or bright daffadillies?

In her clear cheeks she closes
Sweet damask roses,

In her neck white lilies,

Violets in her veins.

Why do men sacrifice

Incense to deities?

Her breath more favour gains,
And pleaseth heavenly veins
More than rich sacrifice.

MADRIGALS.

I

Phoebus, rich father of eternal light

And in his hand a wreath of heliochrise

He brought, to beautify those tresses

Whose train, whose softness, and whose gloss more bright, Apollo's locks did overprize :

Thus with this garland while her brows he blesses,

The golden shadow with his tincture

Cover'd her locks, I gilded with the cincture.

2

Then, as she was 'bove human glory graced,
The Saint (methought) departed,

And suddenly upon her feet she started.
Juno beheld, and fain would have defaced

That female miracle, proud Nature's wonder,

Lest Jove through heaven's clear windows should espy her
And for her beauty Juno's love neglect :

Down she descends, and as she walked by her
A branch of lilies Juno tears in sunder.

Then from her sphere did Venus down reflect,
Lest Mars by chance her beauty should affect;
And with a branch of roses

She beat upon her face. Then Juno closes
And with white lilies did her beauty chasten.
But lovely Graces in memorial

Let both the rose and lily's colours fall

Within her cheeks, which to be foremost hasten.

SIR JOHN DAVIES.
1570-1626.-

TO THE LARK.

Early, cheerful, mounting Lark,
Light's gentle usher, morning's clerk,
In merry notes delighting!

Stint awhile thy song, and hark,
And learn my new inditing.

Bear up this hymn, to heaven it bear;
E'en up to heaven, and sing it there;
To heaven each morning bear it!
Have it set to some sweet sphere,
And let the angels hear it!

Renown'd Astrea, that great name,
Exceeding great in worth and fame,
Great worth hath so renown'd it,
It is Astrea's name I praise:

Now then, sweet Lark! do thou it raise,
And in high heaven resound it!

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

1574-1627.

AN ODE.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring:
Every thing did banish moan
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird! as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulst ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.

Fie! fie! fie! now would she cry;
Teru! Teru! by-and-by:

That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain,

For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain ;
None takes pity on thy pain :

Senseless trees, they can not hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead.
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee

Is no friend to misery:

Words are easy, like the wind;