THOMAS LODGE. 1556-1625. ["Rosalynde: Euphues Golden Legacie." 1581.] ROSADOR'S SONNETO. TURN I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I look upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found; E'en there I meet with sacred Love. He will be partner of my moan; Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue, ["The Phoenix Nest." 1593.] THE SHEPHERD'S SORROW FOR HIS PHOEBE'S DISDAIN. O woods! unto your walks my body hies, From forth their tender stalks, to help mine eyes, When I behold the fair adornéd tree, Which lightning's force and winter's frost resists, And Phoebus' lawless pride Enforce me say, even such my sorrows be; If I behold the flowers by morning tears, All flowers by you are fed. Whereas my piteous plaint, that still appears, Yields vigour to her scorns, and makes me die. When I regard the pretty, gleeful bird, With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain, I yield a tenor with my tears, And whilst her music wounds mine ears, Alas! say I, when will my notes afford Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain? When I behold upon the leafless bough The hapless bird lament her love's depart, I draw her biding nigh, And, sitting down, I sigh, And sighing say, Alas! that birds avow A settled faith, yet Phoebe scorns my smart. Thus weary in my walk, and woeful too, My sorrow doth express; I doat on that which doth my heart undo, And honour her that scorns to yield relief. ["The Phoenix Nest."] Now I find thy looks were feignéd, Of thine eyes I made my mirror; Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Feigned acceptance, when I askéd, Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Now I see (O seemly cruel!) Others warm them at my fuel: Wit shall guide me in this durance, Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure; Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason! Prime youth lasts not, age will follow, And make white these tresses yellow: Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint thee, dame despiteful! And when time shall date thy glory, Then, too late, thou wilt be sorry. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason! JOHN LILY. 1553-1600. ["A tragical comedie of Alexander and Campaspe." 1584.] Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, Growing on's cheek, but none knows how; ["Gallathea." 1592.] yes, O yes, if any maid Whom leering Cupid has betrayed To powers of spite, to eyes of scorn, |