The thrushes seek the shade, Their flight to heaven is made, XVIII. L ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. OVE 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, 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 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: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll count your power not worth a pin. What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not but play thee. XIX. MONTANUS' FANCY. GRAVEN UPON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE, IRST shall the heavens want starry light, The seas be robbed of their waves; The day want sun, and sun want bright, The night want shade, the dead men graves. The April, flowers and leaf and tree, Before I false my faith to thee. First shall the tops of highest hills First direful hate shall turn to peace, And love relent in deep disdain; And envy pity every pain, And pleasure mourn, and sorrow smile, First time shall stay his stayless race, And winter bless his brows with corn: And snow bemoisten Julia's face, And winter, spring, and summer mourn, Cease to recite thy sacred name. XX. MONTANUS' PRAISE OF HIS FAIR PHOEBE HEBE sat, PHOEBE Sweet she sat, Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her; White her brow, Coy her eye, Brow and eye, how much you please me! Words I spent, Sighs I sent, Sighs and words could never draw her. Oh my love, Thou art lost, Since no sight could ever ease thee. Phoebe sat By a fount, Sitting by a fount I spied her : Sweet her touch, Rare her voice; Touch and voice, what may distain you? As she sung, I did sigh, And by sighs whilst that I tried her, Oh mine eyes, You did lose Her first sight whose want did pain you. Phoebe's flocks White as wool, Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes, Dove-like mild, Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel. Montan swears In your lamps He will die for to delight her. Phoebe yield, Or I die : Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel? |