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Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love for secret passion; He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
IMITATION OF MARLOW.
COME live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year,
In plains and
Where fragrant air
on hills and dales, breeds sweetest gales.
There shall you have the beauteous pine, The cedar and the spreading vine,
And all the woods to be a skreen,
Lest Phebus kiss my summer's green.
The seat at your disport shall be,
Over some river, in a tree,
Where silver sands, and pebbles, sing
Eternal ditties with the spring.
There shall you see the nymphs at play,
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.
The birds with heavenly-tuned throats,
Possess wood's echo with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to inflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak,
The ring-dove's wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me, and do no less.
In bowers of laurel, trimly dight,
We will outwear the silent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with more majesty.
Then in mine arms will I inclose
Lily's fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
Thus, as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.
If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to love's paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.
SHALL I like an hermit dwell
On a rock, or in a cell ?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize,
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too:
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
TO HIS BOOK.*
GOE, little Booke! thy self present,
As child whose parent is unkent,
To him that is the President
Of Noblenesse and Chivalrie:
And if that Envy bark at thee,
As sure it will, for succour flee
Under the shadow of his wing.
And, asked who thee forth did bring?
A shepeheard's swain say did thee sing,
All as his straying flocke he fedde:
And when his Honor hath thee redde,
Crave pardon for thy hardy-head.
But if that any ask thy name,
Say thou wert base begot with blame,
Forthy there of thou takest shame.
And when thou art past jeopardie,
Come tell me what was said of mee,
And I will send more after thee.
The Fate of the Butterfly.
I Sing of deadly dolorous debate,
Stirr'd up through wrathful Nemesis' despight, Betwixt two mighty ones of great estate, Drawn into arms and proof of mortal fight Through proud ambition and heart swelling hate, Whilst neither could the other's greater might And 'sdainful scorn endure, that from small jar Their wraths at length broke into open war.
The Shepherd's Calendar, which is dedicated to Sir Philip Sydney.
The root whereof and tragical effect
Vouchsafe, O thou the mournful'st Muse of Nine !
That wont'st the tragick stage for to direct
In funeral complaints and wailful tine,
Reveal to me, and all the
Through which sad did at last decline
To lowest wretchedness. And is there then
Such rancour in the hearts of mighty men ?
Of all the race of silver-winged flies
Which do possess the empire of the air,
Betwixt the centred earth and azure skies,
Was none more favourable nor more fair,
Whilst Heaven did favour his felicities,
Than Clarion, the eldest son and heir
Of Muscarol, and in his father's sight
Of all alive did seem the fairest wight.
With fruitful hope his aged brest he fed
Of future good, which his young toward years,
Fall of brave courage and bold hardy-hed,
Above th' ensample of his equal peers,
Did largely promise, and to him fore-red
(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender tears)
That he in time would sure prove such an one
As should be worthy of his father's throne.
The fresh young Fly, in whom the kindly fire
Of lustful youth began to kindle fast,
Did much disdain to subject his desire
To loathsome sloth, or hours in ease to waste,
But joy'd to range abroad in fresh attire,
Through the wide compass of the airy coast,
And with unwearied wings each part t' inquire
Of the wide rule of his renowned sire :
For he so swift and nimble was of flight,
That from this lover tract he dar'd to fly
Up to the clouds, and thence with pinions light
To mount aloft unto the crystal sky,