What's the cause that She leaves you alone, I have loved her all my youth; Know, that Love is a careless child, His desire is a dureless content, He is won, with a world of despair; Of womenkind such indeed is the love; But True Love is a durable fire, Never sick! never old! never dead! WHAT is our Life? A Play of Passion! Our mothers' wombs, the Tiring Houses be; That sits, and marks still, Who do act amiss? FAREWELL TO THE COURT. LIKE truthless dreams, so are my joys expired; And past return are all my dandled days! My love, misled; and fancy, quite retired: Of all which past, the sorrow only stays! As in a country strange, without companion, Of all which past, the sorrow only stays! A POESY TO PROVE AFFECTION IS NOT LOVE. CONCEIT, begotten by the eyes, Is quickly born, and quickly dies: For as the seeds, in Spring-time sown, Affection follows Fortune's wheels; Desire himself runs out of breath; And, blind, doth seldom choose the best! But as the cinders of the fire. As ships, in ports desired are drowned; The life expires! the woe remains! And yet some Poets fain would prove A REPORTING SONNET. HER face, her tongue, her wit, so fair, so sweet, so sharp, First bent, then drew, now hit, mine eye, mine ear, mine heart. Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, to like, to learn, to love, Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth lead, doth teach, doth move. Her face, her tongue, her wit, with beams, with sound, with art, Doth blind, doth charm, doth rule, mine eye, mine ear, my heart. Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, with life, with hope, with skill, Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth feed, doth feast, doth fill. O, face, O, tongue, O, wit, with frowns, with checks, with smart, Wring not, vex not, wound not, mine eye! mine ear! my heart! This eye, this ear, this heart, shall joy, shall bind, shall swear, Your face, your tongue, your wit, to serve! to love! to fear! MELIBUS. SHEPHERD, what is Love? I pray thee, tell ! It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell MEL. Yet, what is Love? I prithee, say! It is December matched with May, And this is Love, as I hear say! MEL. Yet, what is Love? Good Shepherd, sain! FAU. It is a toothache, or like pain. It is a game, where none doth gain. The Lass saith, 'No!'; and would full fain. MEL. Yet, Shepherd, what is Love? I pray! A pretty kind of sporting fray. It is a thing will soon away! Then, Nymphs! take vantage, while ye may! |