LXIV FIDELE Fear no more the heat o' the sun Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must W. Shakespeare LXV A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies: Those are pearls that were his eyes: W. Shakespeare LXVI A LAND DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm J. Webster LXVII POST MORTEM If Thou survive my well-contented day O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought- But since he died, and poets better prove, W. Shakespeare LXVIII THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH No longer mourn for me when I am dead Nay, if you read this line, remember not That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, W. Shakespeare LXIX YOUNG LOVE Tell me where is Fancy bred, It is engender'd in the eyes; Let us all ring Fancy's knell; W. Shakespeare LXX A DILEMMA Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting : For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. Anon. LXXI ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut my eyes to keep you in ; What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee, Spare not, but play thee! T. Lodge LXXII CUPID AND CAMPASPE Cupid and my Campaspé play'd The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); O Love! has she done this to thee? |