صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني
[blocks in formation]

Ay! though each thought that is tender and

glowing Hath yet no errand save only to herShe may forget thee, while Time is thus flow

ing; Thou waste thy worship-fond idolater!

HOFFMAX.

SONG.

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,
Or, like a fairy trip upon

the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair, Dance on the sand, and yet no footing seen.

Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

[blocks in formation]

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,

Passing happy days and hours !
One bird reports unto another,

In the fall of silver showers;
Whilst the earth, our common mother,

Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

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.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

129

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

Doth me and my love despise,
My life's flourish is decayed

That depended on her eyes :
But her will must be obeyed,
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 !

1

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 music plays if I but sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing ;
Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting;

Ah, wanton !- will ye !

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 :
Alas! what hereby shall I win

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,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,-

Spare not, but play thee.

T. LODGE

OF HIS MISTRESS' FACE.

And would you see my mistress' face?
It is a flowery garden place,
Where knots of beauty have such grace,
That all is work, and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born;
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,
Weak to dazzle and to vex;
It is the Idæa of her sex,
Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is face of death that siniles,
Pleasing though it kills the whiles;
Where Death and Love, in pretty wiles ;
Each other mutually beguiles.

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.

1

« السابقةمتابعة »