THE HAMADRYAD'S SONG

Now the pleasant spring allureth,
And both place and time invites:
But, alas! what heart endureth
To disclaim his sweet delights?
After death, when we are gone,
Joy and pleasure there is none.

the Roses of thy Lips

Love guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within his pretty shrine; And if I look the boy will lower,

And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,

And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers;
Then will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her

In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve

her.

Rosaline

Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Repining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,

To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for her fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

George Peele

Fair and Fair

Enone.

Paris.

Enone.

Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be; The fairest shepherd on our

green,

A love for any lady.

Fair and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be; Thy love is fair for thee alone,

And for no other lady.
My love is fair, my love is

gay,

As fresh as bin the flowers

in May,

And of my love my rounde

lay,

My merry, merry, merry roundelay,