'A little bee doth thee affright! The boy, that kissed his mother's pain, She sucked the wound, and 'suaged the sting; To-day, though grief attaint his heart My bonny Lass, thine eye, Hath made me sorrow so! Thy crimson cheeks, my Dear! Have so much wrought my woe! Thy pleasing smiles and grace, Have ravished so my sprites, Of love; which me affrights. For Fancy's flames of fire Unto such furious power; As but the tears I shed The brands would me devour! I should consume to nought; Of thy fair shining eye, Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles, That forced my heart to die! Thy grace, thy face, the part Stands gazing, still to see The wondrous gifts and power, That hath bewitchèd me! ACCURST be LOVE; and they that trust his trains! He tastes the fruit: whilst others toil. He wageth war: we bide the foil. Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains! He fav'reth pride: we count it rare. Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains! He seemeth blind: yet wounds with art. Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains! Whose heaven is hell; whose perfect joys are pains. LIKE desert woods, with darksome shades obscured, Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror, reigneth; Such is my wounded heart, whom sorrow paineth. The trees are fatal shafts, to death inured, The ghastly beasts, my thoughts in cares assured, Which wage me war, whilst heart no succour gaineth, With false suspect, and fear that still remaineth. The horrors, burning sighs by cares procured, But shafts, but cares, sighs, horrors, unrecured, Were nought esteemed; if, for these pains awarded, My faithful love, by you might be rewarded! MY PHILLIS hath the morning sun My PHILLIS hath prime-feathered flowers, That leap, since she doth own them. But PHILLIS hath so hard a heart As yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it. Sweet sun! when thou lookest on, Sweet flowers! when as she treads on, And if, in life, her love she nill agree me; LOVE guides the roses of thy lips, And flies about them, like a bee! LOVE in thine eyes doth build his bower, And if I look, the Boy will lower; And from their orbs shoot shafts divine! LOVE works thy heart within his fire; And in my tears doth firm the same: And if I tempt, it will retire; And of my plaints doth make a game! LOVE! let me cull her choicest flowers; But if thou do not, LovE! I'll truly serve her, |