Ere you can find John Skelton. II. THE ONE HE WOULD LOVE. A FACE that should content me wondrous well Should not be fat, but lovely to behold; Of lively look, all grief for to repel With right good grace, so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; Her tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit, and these, perchance, I might be tried, And knit again with knot that should not slide. Sir Thomas Wyat. III. THE SERENADE. “ Who is it that this dark night Underneath my window plaineth ?”— Being (ah !) exiled, 'disdaineth Are not yet these fancies changed ?”- Though from me you be estranged, Will not they stir new affection ?”— (Image-like of saint perfection) “ Peace! I think that some give ear, Come, no more, lest I'get anger. Bliss ! I will my bliss forbear, Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you."- Which can make me thus to leave you, Sir Philip Sydney. IV. Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; Why so ? Heigh-ho! A tempest everlasting; Why so ? Samuel Daniel. V. A DITTY. My true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven : My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sydney. VI. My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame! More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight ! Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not forth; they die; Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping, Nymphs back peeping fearfully: All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is filed, All our Love is lost, for Love is dead. Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: William Shakspere. VII. A RENUNCIATION. IF women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan! Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man ! Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. VIII. HAPPY AS A SHEPHERD. AH! what is love! It is a pretty thing, And sweeter, too; Ah then, ah then, His flocks are folded; he comes home at night And merrier, too; Ah then, &c. He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat, And blither too; For kings have often tremours when they sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup : Ah then, &c. Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound More sounder, too; For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill : Ah then, &c. Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or syth, And blither, too; For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, Where shepherds laugh, and love upon the land : Ah then, &c. Robert Greene. IX. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. In the merry month of May, |