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Thy hard hap doth mine appease,
Company doth sorrow ease:
Yet, Phillis, shall I pine for thee,
And still must wear the willow-tree.


Shepherd, he advised by me,
Cast off grief and willow-tree;
For thy griefs bring her content,
She is pleased if thou lament.

CUDDY. Herdsman, I'll be ruled by thee, There lie grief and willow-tree; Henceforth I will do as they, And love a new love every day.




AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,
Love and my sighs, thus intertalk'd:
“Tell me,” said I, in deep distress,
" Where

may. I find my shepherdess?"
“ Thou fool," said Love, “know'st thou not this,
In every thing that's good, she is?
In yonder tulip go and seek,
There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek;
In yon enameli'd pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood;
In brightest lilies that there stand,
The emblems of her whiter hand;
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell” :
“ 'Tis true,” said I. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union :
But on a sudden all was gone.

With that I stopt. Said Love, “these be,
Fond man, resemblances of thee;
And as these flowers, thy joy shall die,
E’en in the twinkling of an eye;
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets thus knit together.”

Thomas Carew.




(H.) My dearest love, since thou wilt go,

And leave me here behind thee;
For love or pity, let me know

The place where I may find thee.
(A.) In country meadows, pearld with dew,

And set about with lilies;
There, filling maunds with cowslips, you

May find your Amarillis.
(H.) What have the meads to do with thee,

Or with thy youthful hours?
Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be

The queen of men—not flowers.
Let country wenches make 'em fine

With posies, since 'tis fitter
For thee with richest gems to shine,

And like the stars to glitter.
(A.) You set too high a rate upon

A shepherdess so homely.
(H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one

l'th' Court that's half so comely.
I prithee stay. (A.) I must away;

Let's kiss first, then we'll sever; (AMBO.) And tho' we bid adieu to-day, We shall not part for ever.

Robert Herrick.



Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearld with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears ;-
Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

Thomas Carew.



SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee, tell!”—
It is that fountain, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that passing bell
That tolls us all to heaven or hell;
And this is love, as I heard tell.

“Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!"-
It is a work on holiday:
It is December match'd with May,
When lusty woods, in fresh array,
Hear, ten months after, of the play;
And this is love, as I hear say.
“Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine !"-
It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain,
The lass saith, No, and would full fain!
And this is love, as I hear saine.

“ Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?”—
It is a “yea,” it is a “ nay,'
A pretty kind of sporting fray;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may,
And this is love, as I hear say.
“ Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!”-
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it so;
And, shepherd, this is love I trow.

Sir Walter Raleign.



NEITHER TOYING NOR TALKING. You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. You blame me, too, because I can't devise Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ; By Love's religion, I must here confess it, The most I love, when I the least express it. Some griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found To give, if any, yet but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below. So when Love speechless is, she doth express A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. Now since my love is tongueless, know me such, Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

Robert Herrick.


Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past ;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies !

Thomas Carew.


SEE'st thou that cloud as silver clear,
Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere?
'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.

Robert Herrick.


UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. WHEN as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick.

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