THOMAS WATSON.

Born 1560, died about 1591.

LOVE UNREQUITED.

When Maye is in his prime, and the youthful spring Doth cloathe the tree with leaves, the ground with flowers,

And time of year reviveth ev'ry thing.

And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lowers;
Then Philomela most doth strain her breast
With night complaints, and sits in little rest.
This bird's estate I may compare with mine,

To whom fond Love doth worke such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs to ease me as I may;
Whilst others are becalmed, or lye them still,
Or sayle secure with wind and tide at will.
And as all those that heare this bird complaine,
Conceive in all her tuncs a sweet delight,
Without remorse or pitying her paine;

So she for whom I waite both daye and night,
Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint:
A just reward for serving such a saint.

THOMAS LODGE.

Born about 1560, died 1623.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

Love in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest,-

Ah! wanton, will ye!

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if I but sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting;

Ab, wanton!-will ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip ye hence,

And bind ye when ye long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;

I'll count your power not worth a pin:→→
Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thec,
O Cupid! so thou pity me,-
Spare not, but play thee.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

Born 1562, died 1619.

AN ODE.

Now each creature joys the other,.
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another,
In the fall of silver showers ;
Whilst the earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom deck'd with flowers.

48

SAMUEL DANIEL.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven
With bright rays warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers, quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills,
Knows the name of my fierce fair,
And sounds the accents of my ills:
Each thing pities my despair,
Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she, O cruel maid!
Doth me and my love despise,
My life's flourish is decay'd
That depended on her eyes:
But her will must be obey'd,

And well he ends for love who dies.

SONG.

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows;
Most barren with best using:

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
'If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, oh!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting ;

And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

MICHAEL

DRAYTON.

Born about 1563, died 1631.

LOVE.

Calm winds, blow you fair;
Rock her, thou sweet gentle air:
Oh! the morn is noon,
The evening comes too soon

To part my love and me!

The roses and thy lips do meet,
Oh! that life were half so sweet!
Who would respect his breath
That might die such a death?

All the bushes that be near
With sweet nightingales beset,
Hush, sweet, and be still,
Let them sing their fill,
There's none our joys to let.