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Sonxet LXXIII.

Who hath the lips where wit in fairness

reigneth? That time of year thou may'st in me behold

Who womankind at once both decks and When yellow leaves, or vone, or few, do hang

staineth2 ! Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, sang: In me thou see 'st the twilight of such day

Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness As after sunset fadeth in the west,

planteth! Which by and by black night doth take away, Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:

wanteth? In me thou see 'st the glowing of such fire,

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie

Only to you her scepter Venus granteth.

16 As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish 'd by: Who hath the breast whose milk doth patience -This thou perceiv 'st, which makes thy love nourish ? more strong,

Whose grace is such that when it chides doth To love that well which thou must leave ere

cherish? long.

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, SonNET LXXIV.

Only through you the tree of life doth flourish. But be contented: when that fell arrest

Who hath the hand which without stroke Without all baile shall carry me away,

subdueth? My life hath in this line some interest,

Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth? Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.3 The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth? My spirit is thine, the better part of me: Who makes a man live then glad when he So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

dieth The prey of worms, my body being dead,

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,

Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,

Who hath the voice which soul from senses And that is this, and this with thee remains.

sunderst Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty

thunders?

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, ELIZABETHAN LYRICS Only with you not miracles are wonders. 4 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes

intendeth? ASTROPHEL AND STELLA, First Song

Which now my breast o'ercharged to music Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes

lendeth? intendeth,

To you, to you, all song of praise is due, Which now my breast surcharged to music Only in you my song begins and endeth.

lendeth ? To you, to you, all song of praise is due, Only in you my song begins and endeth.

GEORGE PEELE (1558-1597!)

FROM THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?

Enone Who keeps the keys of Nature's chiefest

Fair and fair, and twice so fair, treasure ?

As fair as any may be, To you, to you, all song of praise is due,

The fairest shepherd on our green, Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.1

A love for any lady.

32

S

6 refusing bail

21. e., by comparison

4 miracles are not wonders

I was immeasurably lavisha

3 sorrow's

Paris
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,

And for no other lady.

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Enone
My love is fair, my love is gay,

And fresh as bin the flowers in May,
And of my love my roundelay,

My merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid's curse,-

“They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!”

Ambo Simul5
They that to change old love for new,
Pray gous they change for worse!

Enone
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be,
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.

Paris
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,

And for no other lady.

Within mine eyes he makes his best,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ab! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.

Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offense;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin;
-Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like ofe thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

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Enone
My love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry, merry roundelay.

Amen to ('upid's curse, “They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!!!

Paris
They that do change olul love for new,
Pray geds they change for worse !

Ambo Simul
Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,

And for no other lady.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL (1561 ?-1595)

THE BURNING BABE As I in hoary winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat

Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright

Did in the air appear,
Who, scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shed,
Is tho? His floods should quench His flames

Which with His tears were fed.
" Alas!” quoth He, “but newly born

In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts

Or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace i.,

The fuel, wounding thorns; 6 ain pleased with

10

THOMAS LODGE (15582-162,5)

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet; Nor with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.

3 Both together

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Love is the fire and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on,

And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought

Are men's defiled souls;
For which, as now on fire I am

To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath

To wash them in my blood.'' With this He vanish 'd out of sight,

And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind

That it was Christmas-day.

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The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date?, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

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CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593)
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO His LOVE
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linéd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

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PILGRIM TO PILGRIM
As you came from the holy land

Of Walsinghament
Met you not with my true love

By the way as you came?
How shall I know your true love,

That have met many one,
As I went to the holy land,

That have come, that have gone She is neither white nor brown,

But as the heavens fair; There is none hath a form so divino

In the earth or the air.

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SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552 ?-1618) *

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

. Neither of the two poems here given as Raleigh's

7 end
† An ancient Priory in Norfolk, with a famous

shrine of Our Lady. the object of many pil-
grimages until its dissolution in 1538 (Eng.
Lit., p. 79). "A lover growing or grown old, it
would seem, has been left in the lurch by the
object of bis affections. As all the world
thronged to Walsingham the lover supposes
that she too must have gone that way; and
meeting a pilgrim returning from that Eng.
lish Holy Land, asks him if he has seen ans.
thing of her runaway ladyship."-J. W. Hales.

can be ascribed to him with much confidence. The first appeared in England's Helicon over the name "Ignoto." The MS, of the second bears the initials “Sr. W. R."

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What's the cause that she leaves you alone, | Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: And a new way doth take,

Most frien Iship is feigning, most loving mere Who loved you once as her own,

folly: And her joy did you make ?

Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.
I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see,

.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Love likes not the falling fruit

Thou dost not bite so nigh From the withered tree.

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not. He is blind, he is deaf when he list,

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: And in faith never fast.

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere His desire is a durelessi content,

folly: And a trustless joy;

Then, heigh ho! the holly! He is won with a world of despair

This life is most jolly. And is lost with a toy.?

FROM MEASURE FOR MEASURE Of womankind such indeed is the love,

Take, O, take those lips away, Or the word love abused,

That so sweetly were forsworn; l'uder which many childish desires

And those eyes, the break of day, And conceits are excused.

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Lights that do mislead the morn: But true love is a durable fire,

But thy kisses bring again, In the mind ever burning,

Bring again, Never sick, never old, never dead,

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, From itself never turning.

Sealed in vain!

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Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude. i unenduring 2 trifle

FROM HAMLET
How should I your true love know

From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon. 4

4 Pilgrims wore cockle shells in their hats in sign

3 modulate

of their having crossed the sea to the Holy Land, and lovers not infrequently assumed this disguise.

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Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, money!

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THOMAS CAMPION (1l. 1619)

CHERRY-RIPE There is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow;

i who ithe French general)
i i. e.. sending an order:
* In the course of the Hundred Years' War the

English won three great victories over the
French in the face of enormous odds--Crecy
in 1316. Poitiers in 1356, and Agincourt in
1415. The last was won by Henry the Fifth.
and so well was the glory of it remembered
that after nearly two hundred years Drayton
could celebrate it in this ballad, which bids
fair to stand as the supreme national ballad
of England. Breathless from the first word
to the last, rude and rbythmic as the tread
of an army, it arouses the martial spirit as
few things but its imitators can.

5 thickly strewn

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