Where Honour, Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree.
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well-fare nothing once a year.

For many run, but one must win;
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move,
Is love, which is the due of love;
And love as well the shepherd can,
As can the mighty nobleman.

Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet without love, nought worth to me.

MYRA'S INCONSTANCY.

I, with whose colours Myra dressed her head,
I, that wore posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read,
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:

Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back again my turn to play?

I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found
A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,
Which I to wear about mine arm was bound,
That each of us might know that all was ours;
Must I now lead an idle life in wishes,
And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,
I, who did make her blush when I was named;

Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,
Watching with sighs till dead Love be awakéd?

I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,
Like Jealousy o'erwatched with Desire,
Was ever warnéd modesty to keep,

While her breath speaking kindled Nature's fire,

Must I look on a-cold while others warm them?
Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?

Was it for this that I might Myra see,
Washing the water with her beauties, white?
Yet would she never write her love to me;
Thinks wit of change, while thoughts are in delight?
Mad girls may safely love, as they may leave:
No man can print a kiss Lines may deceive.

FRANCIS DAVISON.

1575-161-.

["A Poetical Rhapsodie." 1602.]

OF HIS LADY'S WEEPING.

WHAT need I say how it doth wound my breast,
By fate to be thus ravished from thine eyes,
Since your own tears with me do sympathise,
Pleading with slow departure there to rest?
For when with floods of tears they were oppressed,
Over those ivory banks they did not rise,
Till others, envying their felicities,

Did press them forth, that they might there be blest.

Some of which tears, pressed forth by violence,

Your lips with greedy kissing straight did drink :
And other some, unwilling to part thence,
Enamoured on your cheeks in them did sink;
And some which from your face were forced away,
In sign of love, did on your garments stay.

HIS SIGHS AND TEARS ARE BOOTLESS.

I have entreated, and I have complained;

I have dispraised, and praise I likewise gave;
All means to win her grace I triéd have;
And still I love, and still I am disdained.

So long I have my tongue and pen constrained,
To praise, dispraise, complain, and pity crave,
That now nor tongue, nor pen, to me, her slave,
Remains, whereby her grace may be obtained.
Yet you, my sighs, may purchase me relief;

And ye, my tears, her rocky heart may move : Therefore, my sighs, sigh in her ear my grief; And in her heart, my tears, imprint my love. But cease, vain sighs; cease, cease, ye fruitless tears; Tears cannot pierce her heart, nor sighs her ears.

HIS FAREWELL,

TO HIS UNKIND AND INCONSTANT MISTRESS.

Sweet, if you like and love me still,
And yield me love for my good will,

And do not from your promise start,

When your fair hand gave me your heart;
If dear to you I be,

As you are dear to me;

Then yours I am and will be ever,

Nor time nor place my love shall sever;
But faithful still I will persever,

Like constant marble stone,

Loving but you alone.

But if you favour more than me,

Who love thee, dear, and none but thee,

If others do the harvest gain,

That's due to me for all my pain;

If you delight to range,

And oft to chop and change;

Then get you some new-fangled mate;
My doating love shall turn to hate,
Esteeming you, though too, too late,
Not worth a pebble stone,
Loving not me alone.

BEN JONSON.

1573-1637.

["The Poetaster." 1601.]

SONG.

IF I freely may discover

What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city; A little proud, but full of pity; Light and humorous in her toying; Oft building hopes, and soon destroying; Long, but sweet in the enjoying; Neither too easy, nor too hard, All extremes I would have barred.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions;
Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.

Purely jealous I would have her,
Then only constant when I crave her;

'Tis a virtue should not save her.

Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Nor her peevishness annoy me.