Worth as nought worth rejected, And faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus: Good Lord deliver us. Weep neighbours weep, do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed peacocks folly, His winding-sheet is shame : From them that use me thus: Good Lord deliver us. Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read, And wrong his tomb ordaineth, My mistress' marble heart : Which epitaph containeth, Her eyes were once his dart. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus: Good Lord deliver us. Alas! I lie, rage hath this error bred, Love is not dead, but sleepeth Good Lord deliver us. XVI. HENRY CONSTABLE, 1555?-1615? DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA. D IAPHENIA like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh-ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams, How blest were I if thou would'st prove me! Diaphenia like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets incloses, Loves the sun's life-giving power. For dead, thy breath to life might move me. Diaphenia like to all things blessed, Dear joy, how I do love thee ! Or the bees their careful king; Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me. The woods are decked with leaves, With oaken boughs doth play : Where I am clad in black, The token of my wrack. The birds upon the trees Do sing with pleasant voices, And chant in their degrees Their loves and lucky choices: 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, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee, The livelong night. |