The Golden Treasury. Various

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      The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

       Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

       While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

       Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;

      

      And mournfully bewailing,

       Her throat in tunes expresseth

       What grief her breast oppresseth

       For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

      O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,

       That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:

       Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

       Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

      Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish

       But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,

       Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,

       Full womanlike complains her will was broken.

       But I, who, daily craving,

       Cannot have to content me,

       Have more cause to lament me,

       Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

      O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

       That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:

       Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

       Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

      Sir P. Sidney

XLVIII

      FRUSTRA

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      Take, O take those lips away

       That so sweetly were forsworn,

       And those eyes, the break of day,

       Lights that do mislead the morn:

       But my kisses bring again,

       Bring again—

       Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,

       Seal'd in vain!

      W. Shakespeare

XLIX

      LOVE'S FAREWELL

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      Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—

       Nay I have done, you get no more of me;

       And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,

       That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

      Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,

       And when we meet at any time again,

       Be it not seen in either of our brows

       That we one jot of former love retain.

      Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,

       When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,

       When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

       And innocence is closing up his eyes,

      —Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,

       From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

      M. Drayton

L

      IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO

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      Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

       Though thou be black as night

       And she made all of light,

       Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

      Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!

       Though here thou liv'st disgraced,

       And she in heaven is placed,

       Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

      Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,

       That so have scorchéd thee

       As thou still black must be

       Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

      

      Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!

       There comes a luckless night

       That will dim all her light;

       —And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

      Follow still, since so thy fates ordainéd!

       The sun must have his shade,

       Till both at once do fade,—

       The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainéd.

      T. Campion

LI

      BLIND LOVE

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      O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head

       Which have no correspondence with true sight:

       Or if they have, where is my judgment fled

       That censures falsely what they see aright?

      If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

       What means the world to say it is not so?

       If it be not, then love doth well denote

       Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,

      How can it? O how can love's eye be true,

       That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?

       No marvel then though I mistake my view:

       The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

      O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,

       Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!

      W. Shakespeare

LII

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      Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!

       For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?

       It shall suffice me here to sit and see

       Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:

       What sight can more content a lover's mind

       Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

      

      My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,

       Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;

       And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:

       Dreams often more than waking passions move.

       Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: