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COME live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks; By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lin'd choicely 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, Then live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning: If these delights, thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.



IF that 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.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter's reckoning yield;
A honey tongue-a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cup, 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.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date-nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.


Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand,

Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows,
And shines like rotten wood,
Go, tell the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good;
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others actions,
Not lov'd unless they give,

Not strong but by their factions.
If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,

Who in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

Tell zeal it lacks devotion,

Tell love it is but lust,
Tell time it is but motion,
Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth,
Tell honour how it alters,
Tell beauty how she blasteth,
Tell favour how she falters.
And as they shall reply
Give each of them the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over wiseness.
And if they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness,

Tell skill it is pretension,

Tell charity of coldness,
Tell law it is contention.
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness,
Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship of unkindness,
Tell justice of delay.

And if they dare reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming,

Tell schools they want profoundness,

And stand too much on seeming.

If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city, «VBL!?
Tell how the country erreth,00
Tell manhood shakes off pity.D
Tell virtue least preferreth 10f
And if they do reply,

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Spare not to give the lie.

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Deserves no less than stabbing;
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No stab the soul can kill.

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PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams; The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb: So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover. i Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart

Who sues for no compassion.
Since if my plaints were not t'approve

The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve,
A saint of such perfection,"
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,
I rather choose to want relief,

Than venture the revealing:

Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair disdains the healing amputee

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