Fair Cynthia's silver light
That beats on running streams,
Compares not with her white,
Whose hairs are all sunbeams.

So bright my nymph doth shine
As day unto my eyne.

THE SHEPHERD'S COMMENDATION OF HIS NYMPH.

With this there is a red,
Exceeds the damask rose :
Which in her cheeks is spread
Where every favour grows;

In sky there is no star

But she surmounts it far.

When Phoebus from the bed

Of Thetis doth arise,

The morning blushing red,

In fair carnation wise;

He shows in my nymph's face,

As queen of every grace.

This pleasant lily-white,

This taint of roseate red,

This Cynthia's silver light,

This sweet fair Dea spread,

These sunbeams in mine eye,

These beauties make me die.

EARL OF Oxford.

THE wrathful winter 'proching on apace,

With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen,
And old Saturnus with his frosty face

With chilling cold had pierced the tender green;
The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been
The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown,
The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown.

The soil that erst so seemly was to seen,
Was all despoil'd of her beauty's hue:

And soote fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's queen
Had clad the earth) now Boreas' blasts down blew,

And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue
The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced
In woful wise bewailed the summer past.

WINTER.

Hawthorn had lost his motley livery,

The naked twigs were shivering all for cold;
And dropping down the tears abundantly;

Each thing (me thought) with weeping eye me told
The cruel season, bidding me withhold

My self within, for I was gotten out
Into the fields whereas I waiked about.

SONNET.

THOMAS SACKVILLE.

SOME glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force;

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath its adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

LAWN, as white as driven snow;
Cypress, black as e'er was crow;
Gloves, as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces, and for noses;
Bugle-bracelet, necklace-amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber:
Golden quoifs and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears;
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,

What maids lack from head to heel:

Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.