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I gaz'd on many a lovely face,
Yet found I none to bend my will,
Which made me think that beauty bright
Was nothing else but red and white.

But now thy beams have clear'd my sight,
I blush to think I was so blind,

Thy flaming eyes afford me light,

That beauty's blaze each where I find;
And yet those dames that shine so bright,
Are but the shadows of thy light.

FROM THE PHOENIX NEST. EDIT. 1593.

O NIGHT, O jealous night, repugnant to my plea

sure,

O night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure,

Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow,

Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds,

Sweet night, sweet gentle night, do not prolong my sorrow,

Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining,

Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch awhile; hold in thy horns for shining,

And glad not low'ring night with thy too glorious rays;

But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and re

pining,

That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then Cynthia shine, good lady,

All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady,

Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.

FROM THE SAME.

THE gentle season of the year

Hath made my blooming branch appear,

And beautified the land with flowers;

The air doth savour with delight,

The heavens do smile to see the sight,

And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

VOL. I.

The meads are mantled all with green,
The trembling leaves have clothed the treen,
The birds with feathers new do sing;
But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack,
Attire myself in mourning black,
Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

And as you see the scarlet rose

In his sweet prime his buds disclose,
Whose hue is with the sun revived;
So, in the April of mine age,
My lively colours do assuage,
Because my sunshine is deprived.

My heart, that wonted was of yore,
Light as the winds, abroad to soar
Amongst the buds, when beauty springs,
Now only hovers over you,

As doth the bird that's taken new,

And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

When every man is bent to sport,

Then, pensive, I alone resort

Into some solitary walk,

As doth the doleful turtle dove,

Who, having lost her faithful love,

Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

There to myself I do recount

How far my woes my joys surmount,

How love requiteth me with hate,
How all my pleasures end in pain,
How hate doth say my hope is vain,
How fortune frowns upon my state.

And in this mood, charged with despair,
With vapour'd sighs I dim the air,
And to the Gods make this request,
That by the ending of my life,

I

may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

SONGS.

FROM WILBYE'S MADRIGALS.

EDIT. 1598.

LADY, your words do spite me,

Yet your sweet lips so soft kiss and delight me ; Your deeds my heart surcharg'd with overjoying, Your taunts my life destroying;

Since both have force to kill me,

Let kisses sweet, sweet kill me!
Knights fight with swords and lances,
Fight you with smiling glances,
So, like swans of Meander,

My ghost from hence shall wander,
Singing and dying, singing and dying.

THERE is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,
No chemic art can counterfeit ;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little-all in nought-Content.

CHANGE me, O heaven! into the ruby stone
That on my love's fair locks doth hang in gold,
Yet leave me speech to her to make my moan,
And give me eyes her beauty to behold:

Or if you will not make my flesh a stone,
Make her hard heart seem flesh, that now is none.

Love me not for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Not for any outward part,

No, nor for my constant heart;

For those may fail, or turn to ill,

And thus we love shall sever:

Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,

And love me still,

Yet know not why,

So hast thou the same reason still,

To dote upon me ever.

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