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No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world, that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay ;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. Shakespeare



Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourishéd?

Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes ;
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies :
Let us all ring Fancy's knell ;
I'll begin it, - Ding, dong, bell.
-Ding, dong, bell.

W. Shakespeare



Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting

Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
And then behold your lips where sweet love

My eyes present me with a double doubting :
For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.




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, will ye?
Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence ;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in ;
I'll make you fast it for your sin ;
I'll count your power not worth a pin ;
-Alas ! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be ;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee !

T. Lodge



Cupid and my Campaspé play'd
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid :
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin ;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And last he set her both his eyes-
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love ! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

J. I.ylye

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Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow ;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

To give my Love good-morrow !
Wings from the wind to please her mind

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my Love good-morrow ;

To give my Love good-morrow

Notes from them both I'll borrow'.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,

Sing, birds, in every furrow ;
And from each hill, let music shrill

Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow ;

To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow !

T. Heywood

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Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play-
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair ;
When I, (whom sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In princes' court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
Walk'd forth to ease my pain

Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames ;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours
Against the bridal day, which is not long :

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.
There in a meadow by the river's side
A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket
Made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously.
In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort which in that meadow grew
They gather'd some ; the violet, pallid blue,
The little daisy that at evening closes,
The virgin lily and the primrose true,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegrooms' posies
Against the bridal day, which was not long :

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee ; Two fairer birds I yet

did never see ; The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow Did never whiter show, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; Yet Leda was they say) as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near ; So purely white they were That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,

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