The Golden Treasury. Various

the daffadowndilly,

       White as the sun, fair as the lily,

       Heigh ho, how do I love thee!

       I do love thee as my lambs

       Are belovéd of their dams;

       How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.

       Diaphenia like the spreading roses,

       That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,

       Fair sweet, how do I love thee!

       I do love thee as each flower

       Loves the sun's life-giving power;

       For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

       Diaphenia like to all things blesséd

       When all thy praises are expresséd,

       Dear joy, how do I love thee!

       As the birds do love the spring,

       Or the bees their careful king:

       Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

       H. CONSTABLE.

      16. ROSALINE.

       Like to the clear in highest sphere

       Where all imperial glory shines,

       Of selfsame colour 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 neighbour nigh,

       Within which 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 imprison'd lies,

       To watch for glances every hour

       From her divine and sacred eyes:

       Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

       Her paps are centres of delight,

       Her breasts 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 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!

       T. LODGE.

      17. COLIN.

       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

       Seeméd 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,

       So I awaked as wise this while

       As when I fell a-sleeping:—

       Hey nonny nonny O!

       Hey nonny nonny!

       THE SHEPHERD TONIE.

      18. 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,

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

       But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

       Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

       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.

      19. 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,

       I see their antique pen would have exprest

       Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.

       So all their praises are but prophecies

       Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;

       And for they look'd but with divining eyes,

       They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

       For we, which now behold these present days,

       Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

       W. SHAKESPEARE.

      20. LOVE'S PERJURIES.

       On a day, alack the day!

       Love, whose month is ever May,

       Spied a blossom passing fair

       Playing in the wanton air:

       Through the velvet leaves the wind

       All unseen 'gan passage find;