My wealth is health and perfect ease, My conscience clear my choice defence; I neither seek by bribes to please, Nor by deceit to breed offence : Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so well as I. S XII. SIR WALTER Raleigh, 1552-1618. THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS. WEET violets, Love's paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, which you couched bear Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind If by the favour of propitious stars you gain Be proud to touch those places. And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear, Your honours of the flowery meads I pray, Vermilion roses, that with new day's rise The rich adorned rays of roseate rising morn; Ah! if her virgin's hand Do pluck your pure, ere Phoebus view the land, And vail your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn. If chance my mistress traces Fast by your flowers to take the summer's air; Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes, Then To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting, may Remorse in pitying of my smart, Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart. XIII. DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES. F love be life, I long to die, IF Live they that list for me: And he that gains the most thereby, A fool at least shall be. But he that feels the sorest fits, 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain. In day by feigned looks they live, By lying dreams in night; Each frown a deadly wound doth give, Each smile a false delight. If't hap their lady pleasant seem, It is for others' love they deem : Disdain doth make her coy. Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead, Blown here and there with every wind, Like flowers in the mead. Now war, now peace, now war again, Though dead in midst of life, XIV. Y A DITTY. SIR PHILIP SCONEY. 1554-1586 My 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, 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. XV. RING ASTROPHEL'S LOVE IS DEAD. ING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread, All love is dead infected With plague of deep disdain : |