SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1552-1618. THE SILENT LOVER. PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb. So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come: They that are rich in words must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, With thinking that he feels no smart, Since, if my plaints were not t' approve It comes not from defect of love, For, knowing that I sue to serve I rather choose to want relief, Than venture the revealing: Where glory recommends the grief, Thus those desires that boil so high When Reason cannot make them die, Yet when Discretion doth bereave Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty; The beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity! Then wrong not, dearest to my heart! My love for secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion! HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. Shall I, like a hermit, dwell Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel-gold, If a stranger may be bold, To convert them to a braid; And with little more ado If the mine be grown so free, Were her hands as rich a prize If she seem not chaste to me, No; she must be perfect snow, Then, if others share with me, SIR EDWARD DYER. 1540-161-. ["England's Helicon." 1600.] TO PHILLIS, THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS. My Phillis hath the morning sun, My Phillis hath morn-waking birds, My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers, And Phillis hath a gallant flock, That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath too hard a heart, Alas, that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it: Pray her regard my moan; Sweet birds, when you sing to her. To yield some pity, woo her; And if in life her love she will agree me, NICHOLAS BRETON. 1555-1624, ["England's Helicon."] A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORIDON. On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet: In that bower there is a chair, Fringéd all about with gold, It is Phillis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherd's joy : She that Venus did despite, And did blind her little boy. This is she, the wise, the rich, That the world desires to see: This is ipse qua, the which There is none but only she. Who would not this face admire? Who would not this saint adore? |