MUSIDORUS' SONG.

OCK up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,
Preserve those beams, this age's only light;

To her sweet sense, sweet sleep some ease impart,-
Her sense, too weak to bear her spirit's might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,—
Her sight, where love did forge his fairest dart,—
O harbour all her parts in easeful plight;
Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But yet, O dream, if thou wilt not depart
In this rare subject from thy common right,
But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover's part:
Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,
Till her eyes shine I live in darkest night.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

.. The sweet Pamela was brought into

[From The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, book iii. :-" Pamela, growing extremely sleepy, was invited by him to sleep with these softly uttered verses. . . . a sweet sleep with this song."]

SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD.

EEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe:
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,

Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;

Thus he griev'd in every part,

Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smil'd, father wept,

Mother cried, baby leapt;

More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide.

He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

ROBERT GREENE.

[From Menaphon-"At last to lull him asleep, she warbled out of her woeful breast this

ditty. . . . With this lullaby the baby fell asleep."]

PHILOMELA'S ODE THAT SHE SUNG
IN HER ARBOUR.

S

ITTING by a river side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things,
That the mind in quiet brings.
I 'gan think how some men deem
Gold their god, and some esteem
Honour is the chief content,
That to man in life is lent.
And some others do contend,
Quiet none like to a friend.
Others hold, there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health.
Some man's mind in quiet stands,
When he is lord of many lands.
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss.
And in my thoughts I did approve,
Nought so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees.
With folded arms and lips meeting,

Each soul another sweetly greeting.

For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If Love be so sweet a thing,

That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is Love's sugar'd thrall,

But unhappy maidens all,

Who esteem your virgin's blisses

Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses.

No such quiet to the mind,

As true love with kisses kind.

But if a kiss prove unchaste,

Then is true love quite disgrac'd.

Though love be sweet, learn this of me,
No love sweet but honesty.

[From Philomela, The Lady Fitzwater's Nightingale.]

ROBERT GREENE.

INFIDA'S SONG.

WEET Adon, dar'st not glance thine eye-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—

Upon thy Venus that must die?
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami?

See how sad thy Venus lies,-
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami ?-
Love in heart and tears in eyes;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?

Thy face as fair as Paphos' brooks,-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—
Wherein fancy baits her hooks;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
Noserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?

Thy cheeks like cherries that do grow-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—
Amongst the western mounts of snow;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?

Thy lips vermilion, full of love,-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami ?—

Thy neck as silver, white as dove;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?

Thine eyes, like flames of holy fires,-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—

Burn all my thoughts with sweet desires;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
Noserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami?

All thy beauties sting my heart;-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—
I must die through Cupid's dart;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami?

Wilt thou let thy Venus die?
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami?—

Adon were unkind, say I,—

Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,
Noserez-vous, mon bel ami?

To let fair Venus die for woe,-
N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?—
That doth love sweet Adon so;
Je vous en prie, pity me;
N'oserez-vous, mon bel, mon bel,

N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami?

ROBERT GREENE.

[From Never too Late :-" She took a lute in her hand and in an angelical harmony warbled out this conceited ditty."]