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LOVE'S MESSENGER.

Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed ;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid.
In winter's bower yet not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd,
Unless she do him by the forelock take.
Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one that misseth then her mate,
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.
Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is

prime,
For none can call again the passed time.

SPENSER.

SERENADE.

SLEEPING! why now sleeping ?

The moon herself looks gay,
While through thy lattice peeping,

Wilt not her call obey ?
Wake, love, each star is keeping

For thee its brightest ray;
And languishes the gleaming
From fire-flies now streaming

Athwart the dewy spray.

Awake, the skies are weeping

Because thou art away,
But if of me thou’rt dreaming,

Sleep, loved one, while you may ;
And music's wings shall hover
Softly thy sweet dreams over,

Fanning dark thoughts away, While, dearest, 'tis thy lover

Who'll bid each bright one stay.

HOFFMAN. TO HIS LUTE.

My Lute, awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste;
And end that I have now begun.
And when this song is sung and past,
My Lute be still; for I have done.

As to be heard where care is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone;
My song may pierce her heart as soon :
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan ?-
No, no, my Lute! for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection ;
So that I am past remedy:
Whereby, my Lute and I have done,

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got, Of simple hearts, through Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my Lute and I have done.

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Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That mak'st but game on earnest pain;
Think not alone, under the sun,
Unquit, to cause thy Lover's pain,
Although my Lute and I have done.

May chanced thee lie withered, old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told:
Care then who list, for I have done!

And, then, may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as have done.

Now, cease my Lute! this is my last
Labour that thou and I shall waste;
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this song both sung and past;
My Lute, be still I for I have done.

LORD ROCHFORD. 1530.

“ TRUST IN THEE.”

“ Trust in thee ?" Ay, dearest ! there is no one

but must, Unless truth be a fable, in such as thee trust! For who can see heaven's own hue in those eyes, And doubt that truth with it came down from

the skies; While each thought of thy bosom, like morning's

young light, Almost ere 'tis born, flashes there on his sight?

“ Trust in thee?” Why, bright one, thou couldst

not betray, While thy heart and thine eyes are for ever at

play! And he who unloving can study the one, Is so certain to be by the other undone, That, if he cares ought for his quiet, he must Like me, sweetest MARY, in both of them trust.

C. FENNO.

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