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.

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.

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

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

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,
Tad joys no date7, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move.
To live with thee and be thy love.

PILGRIM TO PILGRIM

As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,†

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 divine
In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angel-like face,

Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,
By her gait, by her grace.

She hath left me here all alone,
All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.

7 end

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An ancient Priory in Norfolk, with a famous shrine of Our Lady, the object of many pilgrimages 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 his 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 English Holy Land, asks him if he has seen anything of her runaway ladyship."-J. W. Hales,

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers.

FROM CYMBELINE

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!

THOMAS DEKKER (1570?-1641?)

FROM PATIENT GRISSELL

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? O sweet content!

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king,

O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content!

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

THOMAS CAMPION (d. 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;

5 thickly strewn

6 who (the French general) 7 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-Crécy in 1346, 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 rhythmic as the tread of an army. it arouses the martial spirit as few things but its imitators can.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;

But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent 'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither sl would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face

As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements
strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she