Ay! though each thought that is tender and glowing Hath yet no errand save only to her She may forget thee, while Time is thus flow ing; Thou waste thy worship-fond idolater! SONG. HOFFMAN. CRUEL Amynta! can you see A heart thus torn, which you betray'd? Love of himself ne'er vanquish'd me, But through your eyes the conquest made. In ambush there the traitor lay, Where I was led by faithless smiles; No wretches are so lost as they Whom much security beguiles ! CONGREVE. IS LOVE SO LIGHT? BID me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie; These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me; Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn to night, even where I list to sport me: Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou should'st think it heavy unto thee? SHAKSPEARE. AN ODE. Now each creature joys the other, In the fall of silver showers; Whilst the earth, our common mother, Whilst the greatest torch of heaven With bright rays warms Flora's lap, Making nights and days both even, Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers, quite bereaven, Wants refresh of better hap. Echo, daughter of the air, Babbling guest of rocks and hills, Knows the name of my fierce fair, And sounds the accents of my ills: Each thing pities my despair, Whilst that she her lover kills. Whilst that she, O cruel maid That depended on her eyes: And well he ends, for love who dies. S. DANIEL, 1582. ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest, Ah! wanton, will ye! I 130 ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight, And makes his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing; Else I with roses every day Will whip ye hence, And bind ye when ye long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin : If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, T. LODGE. OF HIS MISTRESS' FACE. AND would you see my mistress' face? Where knots of beauty have such grace, It is a sweet delicious morn, It is the heaven's bright reflex, Envy of whom doth world perplex. It is a face of death that smiles, It is fair Beauty's freshest youth: It is the feigned Elisium's truth; The spring that wintered hearts renew'th, And this is that my soul pursu'th. CAMPION. |