NICOLAS GRIMAOLD A TRUE LOVE WHAT sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see, As morning bright with scarlet sky doth pass the evening's weed, So doth my Love surmount them all whom yet I hap to see. The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay, Or I my Love let slip out of mine entire heart: So deep reposed in my breast is She for her desert. For many blessed gifts, O happy, happy land! Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand; Yet, land! more is thy bliss that in this cruel age A Venus imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage. And to the Graces three a fourth, Her would Apollo take. With Her so I may live and die, my weal can not be told. BARNABE GOOGE TO THE TUNE OF APELLES 'HE rushing rivers that do run, THE The vallies sweet adorned new That lean their sides against the sun, With flowers fresh of sundry hue, While winter black with hideous storms No end I find in all my smart, But endless torment I sustain, Since first, alas! my woeful heart By sight of thee was forced to plain, · Since that I lost my liberty, Since that thou madest a slave of me. My heart, that once abroad was free, And now is wit consumed with thought; Once I rejoiced above the sky, And now for thee, alas! I die. Once I rejoiced in company, And now my chief and sole delight Is from my friends away to fly And keep alone my wearied sprite. Thy face divine and my desire From flesh have me transform'd to fire. O Nature! thou that first didst frame Her face of crystal to the same, Her lips of precious rubies' mould, Why didst thou not that time devise, The mischief that thereof doth rise And grief on grief doth heap with store, To make her heart of wax alone And not of flint and marble stone? O Lady! show thy favour yet: Let not thy servant die for thee! Possess the place where Grace should dwell! ONCE MUSING AS I SAT, And candle burning by, When all were hush'd, I might discern A simple sely Fly, That flew before mine eyes, With free rejoicing heart, And here and there with wings did play, As void of pain and smart. Sometime by me she sat When she had play'd her fill; I live, and so dost thou ; But I live all in pain, And subject am to Her, alas! That makes my grief her gain. That thou with pen wert placed here And I sat in thy place: Then I should joy as thou dost now, And thou shouldst wail thy case. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY THE MEETING N A GROVE, most rich of shade, IN Where birds wanton music made, May, then young, his pied weeds showing, Did for mutual comfort meet, Him great harms had taught much care, Wept they had, alas the while! Sigh they did but now betwixt |