CENONE'S COMPLAINT.

MELPOMENE, the muse of tragic songs,

With mournful tunes, in stole of dismal hue,

Assist a silly nymph to wail her woe,

And leave thy lustý company behind.

Thou luckless wreath! becomes not me to wear

The poplar tree for triumph of my love :
Then as my joy, my pride of love, is left,
Be thou unclothed of thy lovely green ;

And in thy leaves my fortune written be,
And them some gentle wind let blow abroad,
That all the world may see how false of love
False Paris hath to his Enone been.

THE SHEPHERDS' DIRGE FOR POOR COLIN.

WELLAD

JELLADAY, welladay, poor Colin, thou art going to the ground,

The love whom Thestylis hath slain,

Hard heart, fair face, fraught with disdain,

Disdain in love a deadly wound.

Wound her, sweet Love, so deep again,
That she may feel the dying pain

Of this unhappy shepherd's swain,

And die for love as Colin died, as Colin died.

From GEORGE PEELE'S Polyhymnia, 1590.

FAREWELL TO ARMS.

HIS golden locks time hath to silver turned;

O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing : Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And, lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, which are age his alms :
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,"Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right,

To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

Cor. Mel.

From GEORGE PEELE'S The Hunting of Cupid, licensed for publication in 1591.

CORIDON AND MELAMPUS' SONG.

M

ELAMPUS, when will love be void of fears? When jealousy hath neither eyes nor ears. Cor. Melampus, when will love be thoroughly shrieved? Mel. When it is hard to speak, and not believed. Cor. Melampus, when is love most malcontent? Mel. When lovers range and bear their bows unbent. Cor. Melampus, tell me when love takes least harm? Mel. When swains' sweet pipes are puffed, and trulls

are warm.

Cor. Melampus, tell me when is love best fed?.

Mel. When it has sucked the sweet that ease hath

bred.

Cor. Melampus, when is time in love ill-spent?

Mel. When it earns meed and yet receives no rent.
Cor. Melampus, when is time well-spent in love?

Mel. When deeds win meed, and words love-works do

CUPID'S ARROWS.

T Venus' entreaty for Cupid her son

AT

These arrows by Vulcan were cunningly done.

The first is Love, as here you may behold,

His feathers, head, and body, are of gold :
The second shaft is Hate, a foe to love,
And bitter are his torments for to prove :

The third is Hope, from whence our comfort springs,
His feathers [they] are pulled from Fortune's wings :
Fourth Jealousy in basest minds doth dwell;
His metal Vulcan's Cyclops sent from hell.

WHAT THING IS LOVE?

WHAT thing is love? for, well I wot, love is a

thing.

It is a prick, it is a sting,

It is a pretty, pretty thing;

It is a fire, it is a coal,

Whose flame creeps in at every hole;

And as my wit doth best devise,

Love's dwelling is in ladies' eyes:

From whence do glance love's piercing darts

That make such holes into our hearts;

And all the world herein accord

Love is a great and mighty lord,

And when he list to mount so high,

With Venus he in heaven doth lie,

And evermore hath been a god

Since Mars and she played even and odd.

From GEORGE PEELE'S The Old
Wives' Tale, 1595.

THE IMPATIENT MAID.

WHENAS the rye reach to the chin,

And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within, Strawberries swimming in the cream, And schoolboys playing in the stream ; Then, O, then, O, then, O, my true love said, 'Till that time come again

She could not live a maid.

A

LL

HARVESTMEN A-SINGING.

ye that lovely lovers be,
Pray you for me:

Lo, here we come a-sowing, a-sowing,
And sow sweet fruits of love;

In your sweet hearts well may it prove!

Lo, here we come a-reaping, a-reaping,
To reap our harvest-fruit !

And thus we pass the year so long,
And never be we mute.