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Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.

1584.

25

30

5

ΙΟ

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;

I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas, what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then, sit thou safely on my knee,

And let thy bower my bosom be;

Lurk in mine eyes; I like of thee:
O Cupid, so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

About 1588.

15

20

25

30

35

1590.

ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION

Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair

Whether unfolded or in twines.
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

5

ΙΟ

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm incloses
Apt to entice a deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

15

20

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Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine.

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

About 1588.

1590.

45

ROBERT GREENE

THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG

Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,
And sweeter too;

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest love to frown.

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too;

For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds careless carol by the fire.

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat

His cream and curds as doth the king his meat,
And blither too;

For kings have often fears when they do sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup.
Ah then, ah then,

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If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

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To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,
As is a king in dalliance with a queen,
More wanton too;

For kings have many griefs affects to move,

Where shepherds have no greater grief than love.

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Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his beds of down,
More sounder too;

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