For Love I labored all the day, Through morning chill and midday heat. For surely with the evening gray, I thought, Love’s guerdon shall be sweet. At eventide, with weary limb, I brought my labors to the spot Where Love had bid me come to him; Thither I came, but found him not. For he with idle folk had gone To dance the hours of night away; And I that toiled was left alone, Too weary now to dance or play. FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON. THE LOVE THAT IS REQUITED WITH DISDAIN In search of things that secret are my mated muse began, What it might be molested most the head and mind of man; The bending brow of prince’s face, to wrath that doth attend, Or want of parents, wife, or child, or loss of faithful friend; The roaring of the cannon shot, that makes the piece to shake, Or terror, such as mighty Jove from heaven above can make: All these in fine, may not compare, experience so doth prove, Unto the torments, sharp and strange, of such as be in love. Love looks aloft, and laughs to scorn all such as griefs annoy, The more extreme their passions be, the greater is his joy, Thus Love, as victor of the field, triumphs above the rest, And joys to see his subjects lie with living death in breast; But dire Disdain lets drive a shaft, and galls this bragging fool, He plucks his plumes, unbends his bow, and sets him new to school; Whereby this boy that bragged late, as conqueror over all, Now yields himself unto Disdain, his vassal and his thrall. WILLIAM HUNNIS. CUPID RELIEVED As once young Cupid went astray, The little god I found; I took his bow and shafts away, And fast his pinions bound. At Chloe’s feet my spoils I cast, My conquest proud to shew; She saw his godship fettered fast And smiled to see him so. But ah! that smile such fresh supplies Of arms resistless gave! I’m forced again to yield my prize, And fall again his slave. SOAME JENYNS. LOVE BANISHED HEAVEN Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand’ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born, Yet craved the alms of such as passèd by: I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodged this wand’ring guest, With sighs and tears still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest; But this ungrateful, for my good desert, Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast his lodging on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold. MICHAEL DRAYTON. [Illustration: THE BEGGING CUPID] _A piece of Sculpture_