From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend'
Belief to that the Satyr tells:
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them;
Deign, oh fairest fair, to take them!
For these black-eyed Dryope

Hath often-times commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb:

See how well the lusty time

Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,

Such as on your lips is spread!

Here be berries for a queen,

Some be red, some be green;

These are of that luscious meat,

The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,

I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when, humbly leave I take,

Lest the great Pan do awake,

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.

I must go, I must run

Swifter than the fiery sun.

J. Fletcher

DOUBT you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth

Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth To you! to you! all song of praise is due: Only in you, my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry State with Pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only for you, the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips, where Wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only by you, Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only to you, her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only through you, the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only at you, all envy hopeless rueth.

Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live, then glad when he dieth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only of you, the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only with you, not miracles are wonders.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due:

Only in you, my song begins and endeth.

Sir P. Sidney

TURN back, you wanton flyer,

And answer my desire
With mutual greeting.

Yet bend a little nearer,

True beauty still shines clearer

In closer meeting.

Hearts with hearts delighted

Should strive to be united,

Each other's arms with arms enchaining: Hearts with a thought,

Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.

What harvest half so sweet is
As still to reap the kisses
Grown ripe in sowing?
And straight to be receiver

Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?

There's no strict observing

Of times' or seasons' swerving,

There is ever one fresh spring abiding;

Then what we sow

With our lips let's reap, love's gains dividing.

T. Campion

185. A Canzon Pastoral in Honour of Her Majesty

LAS! what pleasure, now the pleasant spring
Hath given place

To harsh black frosts the sad ground covering,
Can we, poor we, embrace,

When every bird on every branch can sing
Naught but this note of woe, Alas?

Alas! this note of woe why should we sound?
With us, as May, September hath a prime;
Then, birds and branches, your Alas! is fond,
Which call upon the absent summer-time.
For did flowers make our May,

Or the sunbeams your day,

When night and winter did the world embrace,
Well might you wail your ill and sing, Alas!

Lo, matron-like the earth herself attires
In habit grave;

Naked the fields are, bloomless are the briars,
Yet we a summer have,

Who in our clime kindleth these living fires,
Which blooms can on the briars save.
No ice doth crystallize the running brook,
No blast deflowers the flower-adornèd field.
Crystal is clear, but clearer is the look

186.

Which to our climes these living fires doth yield.
Winter, though everywhere,

Hath no abiding here:

On brooks and briars she doth rule alone.
The sun which lights our world is always one.

Phoebe's Sonnet

DOWN a down!'

Thus Phyllis sung

By fancy once distressèd:
"Whoso by foolish love are stung,
Are worthily oppressèd. ·

And so sing I, with a down, a down.

When Love was first begot

And by the mover's will

Did fall to human lot

His solace to fulfil,

Devoid of all deceit,

A chaste and holy fire
Did quicken man's conceit,
And woman's breast inspire.

E. Bolton