XVII

THE UNCHANGEABLE

O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.

XVIII

W. Shakespeare

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumnn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

W. Shakespeare

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XIX

ROSALINE

Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame color is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling 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 Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,

Within which bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:

Heigh ho, for Rosaline!

Her paps are centers of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature molds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

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With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

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 Rosaline,

Since for a fair there's fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

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

XX

COLIN

T. Lodge

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Beauty sat bathing by a spring

Where fairest shades did hide her;
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
The cool streams ran beside her.

My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
To see what was forbidden:

But better memory said, fie!

So vain desire was chidden :

Hey nonny nonny O!
Hey nonny nonny!

Into a slumber then I fell,

When fond imagination

Seemed to see, but could not tell

Her feature or her fashion.

But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
And sometimes fall a-weeping,

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So I awaked, as wise this while

As when I fell a-sleeping:

Hey nonny nonny O!

Hey nonny nonny!

The Shepherd Tonie

XXI

A PICTURE1

Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:
Out of thy golden quiver

Take thou thy strongest arrow

That will through bone and marrow,

And me and thee of grief and fear deliver :-
But come behind, for if she look upon thee,

Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!

Anon.

XXII

A SONG FOR MUSIC2

Weep you no more, sad fountains:
What need you flow so fast?

Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my Sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies,

Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets:

Doth not the sun rise smiling,

When fair at even he sets?

1 From John Wilbye's "First Set of English Madrigals," 1598.

2 From John Dowland's "Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs," 1603.

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Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping!

While She lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies,

Sleeping!

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Anon.

XXIII

TO HIS LOVE

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
And every fair from fair sometime declines,

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By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

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Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest :·

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

W. Shakespeare

XXIV

TO HIS LOVE

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

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