The Golden Treasury. Various

      For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,—

       Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

      W. Shakespeare

XIX

      ROSALINE

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      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 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 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

XX

      COLIN

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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,

       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 PICTURE

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      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 MUSIC

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      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?

       —Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!

       Melt not in weeping!

       While She lies sleeping

       Softly, now softly lies,

       Sleeping!

      Anon.

XXIII

      TO HIS LOVE

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      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