XXII. ROBERT GREENE, 1560?-1592. DORON'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS FAIR L SHEPHERDESS SAMELA. IKE to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, Is fair Samela. As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love; Is fair Samela. Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancies move; Shines fair Samela. Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory, Of fair Samela. Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams, Her brows bright arches framed of ebony, Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, For she's Samela. Pallas in wit, all three you well may view, XXIII. SONG. Yield to Samela. A' H! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. Ah ! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land, So Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the s spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun! imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast. XXIV. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, THE BURNING BABE. SI in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, To view what fire was near, Did in the air appear; 1560-1595. Who scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though his floods should quench his flames, In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire, but I ; My faultless breast the furnace is, The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The fuel justice layeth on, And mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood! With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto my mind That it was Christmas Day. |