He that, after ten denials, The dainties of his chaste desire. SONNET. ONLY joy, now here you are, Take me to thee, and thee to me- Night hath closed all in her cloak, Better place no wit can find, Cupid's yoke to loose, or bind : SONNET. BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one, Nor do not use such colours for to wear, Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan; The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them, who in their lips love's standards bear Where he? (say they of me) now dare I swear He cannot love! No, no; let him alone. And think so still! so Stella know my mind; But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, Dumb swans, not chirping pies, do lovers prove; They love indeed, who quake to say they love. TO SLEEP. [From the Arcadia.] COME, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, With shield of proof shield me from out the prease (a) Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw : O make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, And if these things, as being thine by right, (a) Press, or crowd. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me SIR WALTER RALEIGH. SIR WALTER Raleigh (a) was born in Devonshire in 1552, and executed in Old Palace Yard, on the 29th October, 1618. THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS. SWEET violets, Love's Paradise, that spread Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind, 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, You, 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 ! (a) The finest specimen of Raleigh's verse that remains, if it be his, is given in the Specimens of Sacred and Serious Poetry, with a biographical notice. THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE * PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. IF that the world and love were young, ; But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, * Marlowe's song, so called. THOMAS LODGE. BORN 1556-DIED 1625. LITTLE is known of this poet, save that he attended the university of Oxford, and studied medicine at Avignon, where he obtained a diploma. He was of the Roman Catholic faith; and when he settled in London as a medical practitioner, he gained extensive practice from the patronage of that party. It is thought he was swept away, among many other unnoticed individuals, by the plague in 1625. ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet: Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight; And makes his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, He music plays if I but sing; Ah! wanton, will ye? |