UPID and my Campaspe play'd He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of spar rows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, O Love, has she done this to thee? -John Lyly. THE earth, late choked with showers, Is now arrayed in green; Her bosom springs with flowers, The air dissolves her teen; The heavens laugh at her glory: Yet bide I sad and sorry. The woods are decked with leaves, And Flora crowned with sheaves With oaken boughs doth play, Where I am clad in black In token of my wrack. Spring and Melancholy The birds upon the trees The thrushes seek the shade, Their flight to heaven is made, My walk on earth I have; I sad and pensive wholly. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee |