I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! VII Let others sing of Knights and Paladines In agèd accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines, Which well the reach of their high wit records: But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes Authentic shall my verse in time to come; When yet th’ unborn shall say, _Lo, where she lies!_ _Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!_ These are the arcs, the trophies I erect, That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage. Though th’ error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear. MARK ALEXANDER BOYD 1563-1601 _114._ _Sonet_ Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie; Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree, Or til a reed ourblawin with the win. Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin, Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie; The next a wife ingenrit of the sea, And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin. Unhappy is the man for evermair That tills the sand and sawis in the air; But twice unhappier is he, I lairn, That feidis in his hairt a mad desire, And follows on a woman throw the fire, Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn. JOSHUA SYLVESTER 1563-1618 _115._ _Ubique_ Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the Sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe’er I am,--below, or else above you-- Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you. MICHAEL DRAYTON 1563-1631 _116._ _To His Coy Love_