The seat for your disport shall be,
Over some river in a tree;

Where silver sand, and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties with the spring.

There shall you see the nymphs at play;
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.

The birds with heavenly tuned throats,
Possess woods echoes with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to enflame the heart.

Upon the bare and leafless oak
The ring-doves wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me and do no less.

In bowers of laurel trimly dight,
We will outwear the silent night;
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.

Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify

Your lodging with most majesty.

Then in mine arms will I enclose,

Lilies' fair mixture with the rose ;*
Whose nice perfections in love's play

Shall tune me to the highest key.

*The reader will remember almost the same sentiment, but still

Thus as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds,
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.

If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to love's paradise,
Then come with me and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.

[From England's Helicon, where it is printed with the signature Ignoto. There have been many imitators of Marlowe's song, and several parodies grossly indecent.]

HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Shall I, like a hermit dwell,
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it, where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

more beautifully expressed in the ballad of "Fair Rosamond" given

by Percy:

The blood within her crystal cheekes

Did such a colour drive,

As though the lillye and the rose

For mastership did strive.

PERCY'S RELIQUES, vol. 2, p. 161, Ed. 1811.

Were her tresses angel-gold,*

If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too!

If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good-manners sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she seem not chaste to me
What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;

Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !

[Sir Egerton Brydges has admitted this piece into his edition of Raleigh's poems, but says he has strong doubts whether it should be attributed to Sir Walter's pen. It looks certainly more like one of George Wither's conceits.]

* Gold coined into Angels was so termed, being of a finer kind than crown gold, PARK.

THE SILENT LOVER.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Wrong not sweet mistress of my heart!
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion!

Since, if my plaints were not t'approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t'exceed my duty.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection.

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing :
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing!

Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,

When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter,
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a suitor.

Silence in Love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity!

Then wrong not! dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion!

[This is a most extraordinary poem; terse, harmonious, pointed, full of ingenious turns, and often admirably expressed. It seems to have anticipated a century in its style. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.]

WHENCE COMES MY LOVE?

JOHN HARINGTON,

Whence comes my love?-O heart! disclose :
'Twas from her cheeks that shame the rose,
From lips that spoil the rubys praise,
From eyes that mock the diamonds blaze.
Whence comes my love, as freely own:
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind;
The lips, befitting words most kind;
The eyes does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say-'tis Cupid's fire!
Yet all so fair, but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.