I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head, I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimneys read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play? I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arms was bound That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I lead now an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes? _96._ chimneys] _cheminées_, chimney-screens of tapestry work. I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was namèd: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd? Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauty’s white? Yet would she never write her love to me. Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight? Mad girls may safely love as they may leave; No man can _print_ a kiss: lines may deceive. _96._ deceive] betray. THOMAS LODGE 1556?-1625 _97._ _Rosalind’s Madrigal_ Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, still ye! Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence. I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in; I’ll make you fast it for your sin; I’ll count your power not worth a pin. --Alas! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee; Then let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; O Cupid, so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee! _98._ _Phillis_ I