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Reward upon his feet doth go :

What fools are they that have not known
That Love likes no laws but his own!

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holy-days;
On every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same:
Where Honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well fare nothing once a year!
For many run, but one must win:
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move
Is love, which is the due of love;
And love as well the shepherd can

As can the mighty nobleman.

Sweet Nymph! 'tis true you worthy be:
Yet without love nought worth to me.

THOMAS WATSON.

1557 ?-1592?

ON SIDNEY'S DEATH.

How long with vain complaining,
With dreary tears and joys refraining,
Shall we renew his dying

Whose happy soul is flying,

Not in a place of sadness,

But in eternal gladness?

Sweet Sidney lives in heaven: then let our weeping Be turn'd to hymns and songs of pleasant keeping!

THE KISS.

In time long past, when in Diana's chace
A bramble bush prick'd Venus in the foot,
Old Esculapius help'd her heavy case
Before the hurt had taken any root:

Wherehence, although his beard were crisping hard,
She yielded him a kiss for his reward.

My luck was like to his, this other day,
When She whom I on earth do worship most
For kissing me vouchsafèd thus to say -
"Take this for once, and make thereof no boast!"
Forthwith my heart gave signs of joy by skips,
As though our souls had join'd by kissing lips.

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And since that time I thought it not amiss

To judge which were the best of all these three,-
Her breath, her speech, or that her dainty kiss:
And (sure) of all the kiss best likèd me.
For that it was which did revive my heart,
Oppress'd and almost dead with daily smart.

JEALOUS OF GANYMEDE.

This latter night, amidst my troubled rest,
A dismal dream my fearful heart appall'd,
Whereof the sum was this: Love made a feast,
To which all neighbour Saints and Gods were call'd :
The cheer was more than mortal men can think,
And mirth grew on by taking in their drink.

Then Jove amidst his cups, for service done,

'Gan thus to jest with Ganymede, his boy :

"I fain would find for thee, my pretty Son!

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A fairer wife than Paris brought to Troy."

'Why, Sir!" quoth he, "if Phœbus stand my friend, Who knows the world, this gear will soon have end."

Then Jove replied that Phoebus should not choose
But do his best to find the fairest face;

And she once found should ne will nor refuse,
But yield herself and change her dwelling-place.
Alas! how much was then my heart affright:
Which bade me wake and watch my Fair Delight.

MY LOVE IS PAST.

Love hath delight in sweet delicious fare;
Love never takes Good Counsel for his friend;
Love author is and cause of idle care;
Love is distraught of wit and hath no end;
Love shooteth shafts of burning hot desire;
Love burneth more than either flame or fire.

Love doth much harm through jealousy's assault;
Love once embraced will hardly part again;
Love thinks in breach of faith there is no fault;
Love makes a sport of others' deadly pain;
Love is a wanton child, and loves to brawl;
Love with his war brings many souls to thrall.

These are the smallest faults that lurk in Love;
These are the hurts that I have cause to curse;
These are those truths which no man can disprove ;
These are such harms as none can suffer worse.
All this I write that others may beware,
Though now myself twice free from all such care.

HENRY CONSTABLE.

1555 ?-1615?

DIAPHENIA.

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily!

Heigh ho! how I do love thee:

I do love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams.

How bless'd were I if thou wouldst prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweet all sweets encloses,
Fair Sweet! how I do love thee:

I do love thee as each flower

Loves the sun's life-giving power:

For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed
When all thy praises are expressed,
Dear Joy! how I do love thee:
As the birds do love the Spring,
Or the bees their careful king:

Then in requite, sweet Virgin! love me!

THE FOWLER.

The fowler hides, as closely as he may,

The net where caught the silly bird should be,
Lest he the threatening prison should but see
And so for fear be forced to fly away.
My Lady so, the while she doth essay

In curled knots fast to entangle me,

Puts on her veil, to the end I should not flee
The golden net wherein I am a prey.
Alas, Most Sweet! what need is of a net
To catch a bird that is already tame?
Sith with your hand alone you may it get,

For it desires to fly into the same.

What needs such cost my thoughts then to entrap When of themselves they fly into your lap?

IF TRUE LOVE.

If true love might true love's reward obtain,
Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy ;

But too much worth hath made thee too much coy, And told me long ago I loved in vain. Not the vain hope of undeservèd gain Hath made me paint in verses mine annoy; But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoy Thy beauty's sight, in glasses of my pain. See then Thyself, though me thou wilt not hear, By looking on my verse! For pain in verse, Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear. So, if thou would'st my verses' meaning see, Expound them thus when I my love rehearse"None loves like him!" that is "None fair like me!"

THOMAS LODGE.

1556?-1625.

ROSALYNDE'S MADRIGAL.

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.
Ah, 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!

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