Part 30

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, - soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, - All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

TO HIS COY LOVE

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite - Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!

Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

HER SACRED BOWER

Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?