LOVE is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows: Love doth make the Heavens to move, And the Sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns fishes in the seas: Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be! See, see the flowers that below That as bright Aurora shows; Losing their virginity! Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! All the sand of Tagus' shore Rosalind's Madrigal Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: 461 Only bend thy knee to me, ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL From "Rosalind" Love in my bosom like a bee Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee 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 mine 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! Thomas Lodge [1558?-1625] SONG From "Hymen's Triumph " LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh ho! Samuel Daniel [1562-1619] Venus' Runaway 463 LOVE'S PERJURIES From "Love's Labor's Lost" ON a day, alack the day! Through the velvet leaves the wind, 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. William Shakespeare [1564-1616] VENUS' RUNAWAY From "The Hue and Cry After Cupid" BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy, She that will but now discover Shall to-night receive a kiss, How or where herself would wish: But who brings him to his mother, He hath marks about him plenty: And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, At his sight, the sun hath turned, Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He doth bear a golden bow, Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood: Naught but wounds his hands doth season, And he hates none like to Reason. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. |