ELIZABETHAN LYRICS.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE, The Adventures of Master Ferdinando Ieronimi, Posies, 1575.

SONNET.

THE stately dames of Rome their pearls did wear
About their necks to beautify their name :

But she whom I do serve, her pearls doth bear
Close in her mouth, and, smiling, shew the same.
No wonder, then, though every word she speaks
A jewel seem in judgment of the wise,
Since that her sugared tongue the passage breaks
Between two rocks, bedecked with pearls of price.
Her hair of gold, her front of ivory-

A bloody heart within so white a breast
Her teeth of pearl, lips ruby, crystal eye,
Needs must I honor her above the rest,
Since she is formèd of none other mould
But ruby, crystal, ivory, pearl and gold.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE, Posies,
Flowers, 157 5.

THE STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.

AMID my bale I bathe in bliss,

I swim in heaven, I sink in hell;

I find amends for every miss

And yet my moan no tongue can tell.

I live and love, what would you more?
As never lover lived before.

I laugh sometimes with little lust,
So jest I oft and feel no joy;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,

And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.

I live and lack, I lack and have,

I have and miss the thing I crave.

These things seem strange, yet are they true;
Believe me, sweet, my state is such,
One pleasure which I would eschew

Both slakes my grief and breeds my grutch.
So doth one pain which I would shun
Renew my joys, where grief begun.

Then like the lark that passed the night
In heavy sleep, with cares oppressed,

Yet when she spies the pleasant light

She sends sweet notes from out her breast:

So sing I now because I think

How joys approach when sorrows shrink.

And as fair Philomene, again,

Can watch and sing when others sleep, And taketh pleasure in her pain

To wray the woe that makes her weep: So sing I now for to bewray

The loathsome life I lead alway.

The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my moan.

I pray God grant thee deep delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.

I cannot live, it will not be,
I die to think to part from thee.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (?) in MS. Rawl. 85, fol. 124, date uncertain.

PILGRIM TO PILGRIM.

As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,

Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?

How shall I know your true love,

That have met many one,

As I went to the holy land,

That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,

But as the heavens fair;

There is none hath a form so divine

In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,

Such an angel-like face,

Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,

By her gait, by her grace.

She hath left me here all alone,

All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself,

And me loved as her own.

What's the cause that she leaves you alone,

And a new way doth take,

Who loved you once as her own,

And her joy did you make?

5

ΙΟ

15

20

Of womankind such indeed is the love,

Or the word love abused,

Under which many childish desires

And conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,

In the mind ever burning,

Never sick, never old, never dead,

From itself never turning.

THOMAS LODGE, Scilla's Meta-
morphosis, etc., 1589; written
about 1577.

LAMENT.

THE earth, late choked with showers,

Is now arrayed in green,

Her bosom springs with flowers,

40

The air dissolves her teen ;

The heavens laugh at her glory,

5

Yet bide I sad and sorry.