XII.

SIR WALTER Raleigh,

1552-1618.

S

THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.

WEET violets, Love's paradise, that spread

Your gracious odours, which you couched bear
Within your paly faces;

Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind
That plays amidst the plain,

If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find;
Be proud to touch those places.

And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed;

Your honours of the flowery meads I pray,
You pretty daughters of the earth and sun;
With mild and seemly breathing straight display
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone.

Vermilion roses, that with new day's rise
Display your crimson folds fresh-looking fair,
Whose radiant bright disgraces

The rich adorned rays of roseate rising morn;

Ah! if her virgin's hand

Do pluck your pure, ere Phœbus view the land, And vail your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn. If chance my mistress traces

Fast by your flowers to take the summer's air;
Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes,

To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting, And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend; Whose drops of blood within your leaves consorting, Report fair Venus' moans to have no end. Then may Remorse in pitying of my smart, Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart.

XIII.

DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS'

FOLLIES.

F love be life, I long to die,

IF

Live they that list for me:

And he that gains the most thereby,

A fool at least shall be.

But he that feels the sorest fits,

'Scapes with no less than loss of wits.

Unhappy life they gain,

Which love do entertain.

In day by feigned looks they live,
By lying dreams in night;

Each frown a deadly wound doth give,
Each smile a false delight.

If't hap their lady pleasant seem,

It is for others' love they deem :
If void she seem of joy,

Disdain doth make her coy.

Such is the peace that lovers find,

Such is the life they lead,

Blown here and there with every wind,

Like flowers in the mead.

Now war, now peace, now war again,
Desire, despair, delight, disdain,

Though dead in midst of life,
In peace and yet at strife.

XIV.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 1554-1586.

MY

A DITTY.

Y true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven :
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides :
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it abides.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

R

XV.

ASTROPHEL'S LOVE IS DEAD.

ING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread,
For Love is dead.

All love is dead infected

With plague of deep disdain :

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 :
His will false, seeming holy,
His sole executor blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,

From them that use me thus:

Good Lord deliver us.

Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read,
For Love is dead.

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.