Beauty sat bathing by a spring Where fairest shades did hide her; The winds blew calm, the birds did sing, The cool streams ran beside her. My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye To see what was forbidden: But better memory said, fie! So vain desire was chidden:-- Hey nonny nonny O! Hey nonny nonny! Into a slumber then I fell, When fond imagination Seemed to see, but could not tell Her feature or her fashion. But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile, And sometimes fall a-weeping, So I awaked, as wise this while As when I fell a-sleeping:--- Hey nonny nonny O! Hey nonny nonny! _The Shepherd Tonie_ XXI _A PICTURE_ Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry: Out of thy golden quiver Take thou thy strongest arrow That will through bone and marrow, And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:-- But come behind, for if she look upon thee, Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee! _Anon._ XXII _A SONG FOR MUSIC_ Weep you no more, sad fountains:-- What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste! But my Sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets:-- Doth not the sun rise smiling, When fair at even he sets? --Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping! While She lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping! _Anon._ XXIII _TO HIS LOVE_ Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd: And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest:-- So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. _W. Shakespeare_ XXIV _TO HIS LOVE_ When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.