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And bid me write, and promis'd wished rest;
But, sore I fear, false hope will be the best.

The Nymph's Reply to the [passionate] Shepherd.
[From the same Collection.]

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.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain 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,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

[Signed Ignoto.]

The Shepherd's description of Love.
[From the same Collection.]

ilclibeus. Shepherd, what's love ? I pray thee, tell!

Faust us. It is that fountain, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell
That tolls all in to heaven or hell;
And this is love, as I heard tell.

Mel. Yet, what is love? I prithee say!
Faust. It is a work on holiday;

It is December match'd with May,
When lusty bloods, in fresh array,
Hear, ten months after, of the play ;—
And this is love, as I hear say.

Mel. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saint!

Faust. It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;
It is a tooth-ach, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain.
The lass saith, No, and would full fain !—
And this is love, as I hear saine.

Mel. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?

Faust. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away; Then, nymphs, take 'vantage while ye may!— And this is love, as I hear say.

Mel. Yet, what is love f good shepherd, show!

Faust. A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it so;—
And, shepherd, this is love 1 trow.

The Silent Lover.

Passions are liken'd.best to floods and streams;

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb: So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,

The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart

Who sues for no compassion.

Since if my plaints were not t' approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,

But fear t' exceed my duty.

For, knowing that I sue to serve

A saint ofsuch perfection As all desire, but none deserve

A place in her affection;

I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing:

Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Silence in love betrays more wo
Than words, though ne'er so witty j

A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

Verses found in his Bible.

E'en such is time; which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have!

And pays us nought but age and dust,
Which, in the dark and silent grave,

When we have wander'd all our ways,

Shuts up the story of our days.

And from which grave, and earth, and dust,

The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

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