XLII.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO
HIS LOVE.

COME live with me and be my love!
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love!

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be

Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

G. Marlowe.

XLIII.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE
PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.

IF all the world and Love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed,

Had joys no dates, and age no need ; Then these delights my mind might move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

XLIV.

BURD HELEN.

I WISH I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair

When my Love dropt down and spak nae

mair!

I laid her down wi' meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare !
I'll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,

Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
And I weary of the skies,

Since my Love died for me.-Anon.

XLV.

A RENUNCIATION.

THOU art not fair, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosy ornaments in thee,-
Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
Not fair, nor sweet-unless thou pity me
I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beauty without love.

-Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure

My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,

I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine: -Now show it, if thou be a woman rightEmbrace and kiss and love me in despite !

T. Campion.

XLVI.

THE COMING OF NIGHT.

THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds

sang:

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:

-This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Shakespeare.

XLVII.

TO ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light;

You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passion's understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise ?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,What are you, when the Rose is blown?