Then in faith may fancy see How my love may construed be; How it grows and what it seeks; How it lives and what it likes; So in highest grace regard it, Or in lowest scorn discard it. Robert Greene. LOVE AND BEAUTY. Pretty twinkling starry eyes, How did Nature first devise Such a sparkling in your sight As to give Love such delight, As to make him like a fly, Play with looks until he die? Sure ye were not made at first For such mischief to be curst; As to kill Affection's care That doth only truth declare; Where worth's wonders never wither, Love and Beauty live together. Blessed eyes, then give your blessing, That in passion's best expressing; Love that only lives to grace ye, May not suffer pride deface ye; But in gentle thought's directions Show the power of your perfections. Robert Greene. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core. May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers; But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers. With soothing words inthralled souls She chains in servile bands! Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms; Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms. Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain. Robert Southwell. THE HEART OF STONE. Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose! It was from cheeks that shame the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, "'Tis Cupid's fire;" Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,-- Yet not a heart to save my pain? O Venus, take thy gifts again! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like your own. John Harrington. A SHEPHERD'S SONG TO HIS LOVE.