UPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

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,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And 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?

-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 trees are clothed gay;

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
Do sing with pleasant voices,
And chant in their degrees
Their loves and lucky choices;
When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,
And I my fatal grave;

Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have;
They free, I thrall; they jolly,

I sad and pensive wholly.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of

my

rest:

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.