XIV.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 1554-1586.

MY

A DITTY.

Y true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven :
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his because in me it abides.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

R1

XV.

ASTROPHEL'S LOVE IS DEAD.

ING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread,
For Love is dead.

All love is dead infected

With plague of deep disdain :

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.

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.

XVII

THOMAS LODGE, 1557?-1625?

MADRIGAL.

HE earth late choked with showers

THE

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.