--This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. _W. Shakespeare_ VI 2 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack! Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. _W. Shakespeare._ VII _THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE_ Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair linéd 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 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. _C. Marlowe_ VIII _OMNIA VINCIT_ Fain would I change that note To which fond Love hath charm'd me Long long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harm'd me: Yet when this thought doth come 'Love is the perfect sum Of all delight,' I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. O Love! they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss, Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee! _Anon._ IX _A MADRIGAL_