Come, little boy, and rock asleep, Sing lullaby and be thou still, I that can do nought else but weep; Will sit by thee and wail my fill: God bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality! _Anon._ LVIII With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness? _Sir P. Sidney_ LIX _O CRUDELIS AMOR_ When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iopé, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told' these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me! _T. Campion_ LX _SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD_ Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe, Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt; More he crow'd, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide: He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. _R. Greene_ LXI _A LAMENT_