My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. Sad true lover never find my grave, W. Shakespeare LXIII TO HIS LUTE My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, W. Drummond LXIV FIDELE Fear no more the heat o' the sun Home art gone and ta'en thy wages Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan All lovers young, all lovers must W. Shakespeare LXV A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies: Those are pearls that were his eyes: But doth suffer a sea-change W. Shakespeare LXVI A LAND DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm J. Webster LXVII POST MORTEM If Thou survive my well-contented day Compare them with the bettering of the time, O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought- But since he died, and poets better prove, LXVIII THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH No longer mourn for me when I am dead Nay, if you read this line, remember not O if, I say, you look upon this verse Lest the wise world should look into your moan, W. Shakespeare LXIX YOUNG LOVE Tell me where is Fancy bred, It is engender'd in the eyes; W. Shakespeare LXX A DILEMMA Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, 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. Anon. LXXI ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, |