So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. W. Shakespeare XIX ROSALINE Like to the clear in highest sphere Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; Her lips are like two budded roses Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity : Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck is like a stately tower Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : Nature herself her shape admires ; Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan Since for a 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! XX COLIN T. Lodge Beauty sat bathing by a spring Where fairest shades did hide her; My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye But better memory said, fie! So vain desire was chidden :- Into a slumber then I fell, When fond imagination Seemed to see, but could not tell Her feature or her fashion. But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile, So I awaked, as wise this while As when I fell a-sleeping : Hey nonny nonny O! The Shepherd Tonic XXI A PICTURE Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Take thou thy strongest arrow That will through bone and marrow, : And me and thee of grief and fear deliver :- Anon. XXII A SONG FOR MUSIC Weep you no more, sad fountains :- Heaven's sun doth gently waste! Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets : Doth not the sun rise smiling, When fair at even he sets? -Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping! While She lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping! Anon. XXIII TO HIS LOVE Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, XXIV TO HIS LOVE When in the chronicle of wasted time |