WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail? O ’tis the ravish’d nightingale. _Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu!_ she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! Who is’t now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin redbreast tunes his note! Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing _Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring! _Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring! ANTHONY MUNDAY 1553-1633 _87._ _Beauty Bathing_ 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, And fond imagination Seemèd 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 that while As when I fell a-sleeping. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 1554-86 _88._ _The Bargain_ My true love hath my heart, and I have his, But 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. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. _89._ _Song_ Who hath his fancy pleasèd With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raisèd On Nature’s sweetest light; A light which doth dissever And yet unite the eyes, A light which, dying never, Is cause the looker dies. She never dies, but lasteth In life of lover’s heart; He ever dies that wasteth In love his chiefest part: Thus is her life still guarded In never-dying faith; Thus is his death rewarded, Since she lives in his death. Look then, and die! The pleasure Doth answer well the pain: Small loss of mortal treasure, Who may immortal gain! Immortal be her graces, Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places-- This, heaven in it doth bind. But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprivèd be not From sight of her fair eyes-- Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal. But who hath fancies pleasèd With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raisèd On Nature’s sweetest light!