LATE tired with woe, even ready for to pine, With rage of love, I called my love unkind; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joyed; but straight thus wat’red was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind; Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore, by her love’s authority, Wiled me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, Dear, love me not, that you may love me more. THOMAS LODGE 1556–1625 ROSALYND’S MADRIGAL LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mines eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing: He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, will ye? Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence; I’ll shut my eyes to keep you in, I’ll make you fast it for your sin, I’ll count your power not worth a pin: Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee! O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee! ROSALINE 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 Phœbus’ 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!