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THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, [or] hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
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 orage, and rocks grow cold ;
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains 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 bed 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.
What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men ?
These are but vain : that's only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Like to Diana in her summer weed,
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela;
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa faint they lie,
Is fair Samela ;
As fair Aurora in her morning grey,
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela;
Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day,
Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,
Shines fair Samela;
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela;
Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams,
Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony;
Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,
For she's Samela : Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity
Yield to Samela.
Rose-cheeked Laura, come !
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed,
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them ;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord ;
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty, And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 10 Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world .compriseth ! Do but look on her hair, it is bright
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it ?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ?
Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ?
Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee? () so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
Roses, their sharp spines beir.g gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue ;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint ;
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Lark-heels trim ;