I rather chuse to want relief Than venture the revealing; Silence in love betrays more woe Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, He smarteth most who hides his smart, A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE. HEY down a down, did Dian sing, Than love there is no vainer thing For maidens most unfitting: And so think I, with a down down derry. When women knew no woe, But liv'd themselves to please, Men's feigning guiles they did not know, The ground of their disease. Unborn was false Suspect; No thought of Jealousy; From wanton toys and fond affect The virgin's life was free: Hey down adown, did Dian sing, &c. Hey down a down, did Dian sing, Than love there is no vainer thing, A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN. METHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay, Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. Ascribed to Sir W. Raleigh in England's Helicon. Melibaeus. SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee tell. Where pleasure and repentance dwell; M. Yet, what is love? I prithee say. F. It is December match'd with May, M. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, sain. F. It is a toothache, or like pain; M. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray? F. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away; Then nymphs take vantage while you may, And this is love as I hear say. M. And what is love, good shepherd, shew? F. A thing that creeps, it cannot go; A prize that passeth to and fro; DULCINA. As at noon Dulcina rested In her sweet and shady bower, Came a shepherd, and requested In her lap to sleep an hour. But from her look A wound he took So deep, that for a farther boon Whereto she says, "Forego me now, come to me soon!" But in vain she did conjure him To depart her presence so, Having a thousand tongues t' allure him, And but one to bid him go. When lips invite, And eyes delight, And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, What boots to say, "Forego me now, come to me soon ! He demands, what time for pleasure Improves delight; Which she denies; "Night's murky noon In Venus' plays Makes bold," she says, Forego me now, come to me soon!" But what promise, or profession, From his hands could purchase scope? Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beauty for a hope? |