Like rich men that take pleasure

In hiding, more than handling treasure.

By absence this good means I gain,
That I can catch her,

Where none can watch her,

In some close corner of my brain.

There I embrace her, and there kiss her,

And so I both enjoy and miss her.

XXVII

DONNE (?)

WHAT IS LOVE?

Now what is Love? I praye thee, tell,
It is that fountaine 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 heare tell.

Yet what is Love? I

praye thee saye,

It is a work on holie day;

It is December match'd with Maye:
When lustie blouds, in fresh araye,

Heare ten months after of their playe:

And this is Love, as I heare saye.

Yet what is Love? I prae

thee saine,
It is a sunshine mix'd with raine;
It is a toothe-ache, or like paine;

It is a game where none doth gaine :
The lasse saith no, and would full faine:

And this is Love, as I heare saine.

Yet what is Love? I pray thee saie,
It is a yea, it is a nay,

A pretie kind of sporting fray,

It is a thing will soone away;

Then take the vantage while you may :
And this is Love, as I heare say.

Yet what is Love? I pray thee showe,
A thing that creepes, it cannot goe,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for mo;

And he that proves, must finde it so :
And this is Love, sweet friend, I troe.

SIR W. RALEIGH (?)

XXVIII

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

IN the merry month of May,
In a morne by breake of day,

Forth I walked by the wood-side,
When as May was in his pride:
There I spied all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot,

He would love and she would not.
She said never man was true,

He said, none was false to you,

He said, he had lov'd her long,

She said, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then.

She said, maides must kiss no men,

Till they did for good and all:
Then she made the shepherd call

All the heavens to witnesse truth:
Never lov'd a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,

Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use

When they will not love abuse.
Love which had beene long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded.
And Phillida with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.

N. BRETON.

XXIX

A SONG

PACKE, cloudes, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow,

Sweete ayre, blow soft, mount, Larke, aloft,

To give my love good morrow.

Winges from the winde, to please her minde,

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 all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-brest,
Sing birds in every furrow,

And from each bill, let musicke shrill,
Give my faire love good morrow;
Blacke-bird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my faire love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

T. HEYWOOD.

XXX

A SONG

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shadie valleys,

And see how Phillis sweetly walkes
Within her garden alleyes;

Goe pretty birds about her bowre,
Sing pretty birds she may not lowre,
Ah me, me thinkes I see her frowne,
Ye pretty wantons warble.

Goe tune your voices harmonie,

And sing I am her lover;

Straine loude and sweet, that every note,
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice,
Yet still me thinkes I see her frowne,
Ye pretty wantons warble.

O fly, make hast, see, see, she falles
Into a pretty slumber,

Sing round about her rosie bed

That waking she may wonder,