Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet! Forget not! O, forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is The mind that never meant amiss-- Forget not yet! Forget not then thine own approved The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved-- Forget not this! _Sir T. Wyat_ XXIX _TO AURORA_ O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. O if thy pride did not our joys controul, What world of loving wonders should'st thou see! For if I saw thee once transform'd in me, Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul; Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine, And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone; No, I would have my share in what were thine: And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, This happy harmony would make them none. _W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline_ XXX _IN LACRIMAS_ I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advancéd so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep, Her face was full of woe, But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love. O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow. _Anon._ XXXI _TRUE LOVE_ Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove:-- O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:-- If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. _W. Shakespeare_ XXXII _A DITTY_ My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.