It came with the merry May, love, It looked about forty three, And much to my dismay, love, It fixed itself on to me. I know that it foolish sounds, love, I promised and breached, you know. It cost me five hundred pounds, love, Just over a year ago! FREDERICK BOWYER. (This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in the Burlesque of _Kenilworth_ at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.) ――――:o:―――― THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, The woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5] As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. ―――― THE NYMPH’S REPLY. If all the World and Love were young, And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue, These pleasures might my passion move, To live with thee, and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5] When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. But fading flowers in every field, To winter floods their treasures yield; A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall, Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten, In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, Can me with no enticements move, To live with thee, and be thy love. What should we talk of dainties, then,[5] Of better meat than’s fit for men? These are but vain; that’s only good Which God hath blessed and sent for food.