Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;

I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

FADING SUMMER.

AIR summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore;

FAIR

So fair a summer look for never more:

All good things vanish less than in a day;
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

What! shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?

O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

THOMAS LODGE.

(1558?-1625.)

The "Song of Rosaline" is in the pastoral romance of Rosalind, 1590, the source of As You Like It. The second selection is one of the "Sundrie Sweet Sonnets" contained in Scilla's Metamorphosis, 1589, written 1577(?). The last selection is found in the Life of Robert, Second Duke of Normandy, 1591. Lodge's works are reprinted in the Hunterian Club publications; Rosalind in Hazlitt's Shakespeare's Library. Many of his lyrics are included among Mr. Bullen's Lyrics from Elizabethan Romances.

ROSADER'S DESCRIPTION OF ROSALYND.

IKE to the clear in highest sphere,

L'

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of self-same colour is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver-crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,

Within whose bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame, Where nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same. Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft to touch, and sweet in view;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalynd;
Since for her fair there is fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine.

Heigh ho! fair Rosalynd!

Heigh ho! my heart, would God that she were mine!

THE HARMONY OF LOVE.

A VERY phoenix, in her radiant eyes

I leave mine age, and get my life again;
True Hesperus, I watch her fall and rise,
And with my tears extinguish all my pain;
My lips for shadows shield her springing roses,

Mine eyes for watchmen guard her while she sleepeth,
My reasons serve to 'quite her faint supposes;
Her fancy, mine; my faith her fancy keepeth;
She flowers, I branch; her sweet my sour supporteth,
O happy Love, where such delights consorteth!

WHILST YOUTHFUL SPORTS ARE LASTING.

PLUCK the fruit and taste the pleasure,
Youthful lordings, of delight;

Whilst occasion gives you seizure,
Feed your fancies and your sight:
After death, when you are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

Here on earth nothing is stable;
Fortune's changes well are known:
Whilst as youth doth then enable,
Let your seeds of joy be sown:

After death, when you are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

Feast it freely with your lovers,
Blithe and wanton sports do fade,
Whilst that lovely Cupid hovers
Round about this lovely shade:
Sport it freely one to one,
After death is pleasure none.

Now the pleasant spring allureth,
And both place and time invites:
But, alas, what heart endureth

To disclaim his sweet delights?
After death, when we are gone,
Joy and pleasure is there none.

JOHN DICKENSON.

(Fl. 1590-1600.)

A PASTORAL CATCH.

From the Shepherd's Complaint, circa 1594. Printed also in England's Helicon, 1600.