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Diaphenia like the spreading roses,

That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, l'air 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 blesséd When all thy praises are expresséd, 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 !

H. Constable


Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink ;
The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine !
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 neighbour nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies,

To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes :

Heigh ho, for Rosaline !
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same :

Heigh ho, would she rere mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires ;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light :

Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine :

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

T. Lodge



Beauty sat bathing by a spring

Where fairest shades did hide her;
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,

The cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye

To see what was forbidden:
But better memory said, fie !
So vain desire was chidden :-

Hey nonny nonny O!
Hey nonny nonny !

Into a slumber then I fell,

When fond imagination
Seeméd to see, but could not tell

Her feature or her fashion.
But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,

And sometimes fall a-weeping,
So I awaked, as wise this while
As en I fell a-sleeping :

Hey nonny nonny O!
Hey nonny nonny !

The Shepherd Tonie




Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate :
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date :
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d :
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm’d.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

W. Shakespeare

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When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
*And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ;

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ;
And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill your worth to sing :
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

W. Shakespeare



On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air :
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so !
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee :
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

W. Shakespeare


Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail so gladly spent,

Forget not yet !
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service none tell can;

Forget not yet !
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,

Forget not yet !
Forget not! O, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss-

Forget not yet !
Forget not then thine own approved
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved-

Forget not this !

Sir T. Wyat


TO AURORA O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. O if thy pride did not our joys controul, What world of loving wonders should'st thou see ! For if I saw thee once transform'd in me, Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ;

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