The worth that worthiness should move Is love, which is the due of love; And love as well the shepherd can As can the mighty nobleman:-- Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be; Yet, without love, nought worth to me. Fulke-Greville, Lord Brooke. CUPID AND MY CAMPASPE: APELLES' SONG. Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses: Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin-- All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes.-- She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? John Lyly. A DITTY. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other 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. Sir Philip Sidney. LOVE IS DEAD. Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread; For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, _Her eyes were once his dart_. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In his unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find: Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Sir Philip Sidney. HE THAT LOVES.