Then wrong not dearest of my heart,

My true, though secret, passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

A DITTY.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven;
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

EARLY LOVE.

Ah, I remember well (and how can I

But evermore remember well?) when first

Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; when as we sat and sighed,

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.

65

And looked upon each other, and conceived
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail,
And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and
thus,

In that first garden of our simpleness,

We spent our childhood. But when years began
Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow,
Check my presumption and my forwardness!
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.
SAMUEL DANIEL.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountains yields:

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing 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,
Come live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

ANSWER TO THE SAME.

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.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; Then Philomel becometh dumb,

The rest complain of cares to come.

LOVES OMNIPRESENCE.

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.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

67

LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.

Were I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble

swain,

Ascend to heaven in honor of my Love.

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low

As are the deepest bottoms of the main,

Whereso'er you were, with you, my love should

go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were
done.

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,

Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love

you.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE!

Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me;
And if such a woman move
As I now shall versify,
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As ne'er yet embraced a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,—
Some for less were deified.