The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay; Ah! see, whoso fayre thing doest faine[94] to see, In springing flowre the image of thy day! Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee Doth first peepe foorth with bashfull modestee, That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may! Lo! see, soone after how more bold and free Her bared bosome she doth broad display; Lo! see, soone after how she fades and falls away. So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre; Ne more doth florish after first decay, That earst[95] was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady, and many a paramowre! Gather therefore the rose whilst yet is prime,[96] For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre: Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time, Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime. [Footnote 90: A reference to Lord Burleigh's hostility to the poet] [Footnote 91: Might.] [Footnote 92: At once.] [Footnote 93: Bass.] THE HOUSE OF SLEEP. [From the _Faerie Queene_. Book I. Canto I.] He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe, To Morpheus' house doth hastily repaire: Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred.... And more to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. No other noyse, nor people's troublous cryes, As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard; but careless quiet lyes Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes. [Footnote 94: Rejoice.] [Footnote 95: First, formerly.] [Footnote 96: Spring.] WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. SONNET XC. Then hate me when thou wilt: if ever, now: Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after loss. Ah! do not when my heart hath scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite; But in the onset come: So shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so. SONG. [From _As You Like It_.]