C

CUPID AND CAMPASPE

UPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on his cheek, but none knows how;
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:-
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me!

M

A DITTY

John Lilly.

Y 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 Sidney.

SONG FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT”

MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming?.

O O! stay and hear; your true love's coming,

That can sing both high and low:

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter:
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare.

SIGH NO MORE

(From "Much Ado About Nothing")

IGH no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;

SIGH

One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never;

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy:
Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny; Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey nonny, nonny.

William Shakespeare

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

N the merry month of May,

IN

In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
When anon by a woodside,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,

Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not:
She said, never man was true:
He says, none was false to you.

He said, he had loved her long:

She says, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then,
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness, truth
Never loved a truer youth.

Thus, with many a pretty oath,
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!-
Such as silly shepherds use

When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded:
And Phillida, with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.

Nicholas Breton.

CHERRY-RIPE

'HERE is a garden in her face

THE

Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of Orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them no peer or prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,—
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry!

Richard Allison.

SEND BACK MY LONG-STRAY'D EYES

SE

TO ME

END back my long-stray'd eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learnt such ill, To sweetly smile,

And then beguile,

Keep the deceivers, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
But if it has been taught by thine
To forfeit both

Its word and oath,

Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
For I'll know all thy falsities;

That I one day may laugh, when thou
Shalt grieve and mourn―

Of one the scorn,

Who proves as false as thou art now.

John Donne.