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[From Puttenham's Art of Poesy.)
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, There never was a better bargain driven :
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
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 bides.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his, LORD BROOK.
Fulk Greville, lord Brook, was born at Alcaster, in Warwick.
shire, A.D. 1554, and introduced very early to the court of Elizabeth,with whom he effectually ingratiated himself; and though, like all her favourites, he had often reason to complain of her political coquetry, and was disappointed by her caprice, in his projects of obtaining military distinction, he was rewarded by her, with many important and lucrative employments. He had also the address to acquire and preserve the favour of her successors, James and Charles, by the former of whom he was created lord Brook, in 1620. He was at last assassinated by one of his own retainers, Ralph Heywood, and died of the wound on the 30th of September,
1628. Lord Brook, like his friend and relation Sir P. Sidney, was a
liberal patron of literature; and his poetry, particularly his matchless Mustapha (as Bolton calls it), was much admired by his contemporaries.
I, WITH whose colours Myra drest her head,
I, that wore posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimnies read,
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking, Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play?
I that ou Sunday at the church-stile found
A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flow'rs, Which I to wear about mine arm was wont,
That each of us might know that all was ours, Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes ?
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes, her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was na
named, Must I lose, ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked ?
I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,
Like jealousy o’er-watched by desire, Was ever warned modesty to keep,
While her breath speaking kindied nature's fire, Must I look on a-cold while others warm them? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?
AWAY with these self-loving lads,
For Cupid is a meadow god,
Sweet Cupid's shafts, like destiny,
What fools are they that have not known
My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
Where honour Cupid's rival is,
The worth that worthiness should move
Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be,
My senses all, like beacon's flame,
Gave alarum to desire,
And set all my thoughts on fire.
Up I start, believing well
To see if Cynthia were awake; Wonders I saw, who can tell ?
And thus unto myself I spake :
Sweet god, Cupid, where am I?,
That by pale Diana's light, Such rich beauties do espy
As barm our senses with delight.