Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty’s gone. _265._ _To Œnone_ What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own? For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart. Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together! _266._ _To Anthea, who may command him Anything_ Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I’ll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And’t shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see: And, having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I’ll despair Under that cypress-tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E’en death to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part To live and die for thee. _267._ _To the Willow-tree_ Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest, And left of love, are crown’d. When once the lover’s rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands ’bout the head Bedew’d with tears are worn. When with neglect, the lovers’ bane, Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee. And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night. _268._ _The Mad Maid’s Song_ Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave, I’ll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they’ve made his grave I’ th’ bed of strawberries.