'And wantonly roves
Abroad in the groves,
And in the air hovers;
Which when it him deweth,
His feathers he meweth
In sighs of true Lovers.
'And since doomed by Fate,
(That well knew his hate!)
That he should be blind;
For very despite,
Our eyes be his White!
So wayward his kind!
'If his shafts losing
(Ill his mark choosing!),
Or his bow broken;
The moan that VENUS maketh,
And care that she taketh,
Cannot be spoken!
'TO VULCAN commending
Her love; and straight sending
Her doves and her sparrows,
With kisses, unto him:
And all but to woo him,
To make her son arrows!
'Telling what he hath done,
Saith she, "Right mine own son!"
In her arms, she him closes!
Sweets on him fans!
Laid in down of her swans!
His sheets, leaves of roses!
'And feeds him with kisses;
Which, oft, when he misses,
He ever is froward!
The mother's o'erjoying
Makes, by much coying,
The child so untoward!'
Yet in a fine net,
That a spider set,
The Maidens had caught him!
Had she not been near him,
And chanced to hear him,
More good they had taught him!
SINCE there's no help; come, let us kiss, and part!
Nay, I have done! You get no more of me!
And I am glad; yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly, I myself can free!
Shake hands, for ever! Cancel all our vows!
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen, in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes;
Now (if thou wouldst !), when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
UPON a bank, with roses set about,
Where pretty turtles, joining bill to bill;
And gentle springs steal softly murmuring out,
Washing the foot of Pleasure's sacred hill:
There, little Love, sore wounded, lies!
His bow and arrows broken,
Bedewed with tears from VENUS' eyes.
Oh! grievous to be spoken!
Bear him my heart! slain with her scornful eye;
Where sticks the arrow that poor heart did kill ;
With whose sharp pile, request him, ere he die,
About the same, to write his latest Will!
And bid him send it back to me,
At instant of his dying;
That cruel, cruel She may see
My faith, and her denying!
His Chapel be a mournful cypress shade;
And for a Chantry, PHILOMEL'S sweet lay!
Where prayers shall continually be made
By pilgrim Lovers, passing by that way:
With Nymphs' and Shepherds' yearly moan,
His timeless death beweeping,
In telling, that my heart alone
Hath his last Will in keeping.
TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE [OF 1606].
You, brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That Honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue!
Whilst loitering hinds
Lurk here at home with shame.
Britans, you stay too long!
Quickly aboard bestow you!
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer!
West-and-by-South forth keep!
Rocks, lee shores, nor shoals,
When EOLUS SCOwls,
You need not fear;
So absolute the deep!
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold!
And ours to hold,
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