Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll count your power not worth a pin. What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee, O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not but play thee. D XIX. MONTANUS' FANCY. GRAVEN UPON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE. F IRST shall the heavens want starry light, The seas be robbed of their waves; The day want sun, and sun want bright, The night want shade, the dead men graves. The April, flowers and leaf and tree, First shall the tops of highest hills By humble plains be overpride: And fish forsake the water glide; First direful hate shall turn to peace, And envy pity every pain, And pleasure mourn, and sorrow smile, First time shall stay his stayless race, And winter bless his brows with corn: And snow bemoisten Julia's face, And winter, spring, and summer mourn, Cease to recite thy sacred name. XX. MONTANUS' PRAISE OF HIS FAIR PHOEBE. PHEBE Sat, Sweet she sat, Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her; White her brow, Coy her eye, Brow and eye, how much you please me! Sweet her touch, Rare her voice; Touch and voice, what may distain you? As she sung, I did sigh, And by sighs whilst that I tried her, Oh mine eyes, You did lose Her first sight whose want did pain you. Phoebe's flocks White as wool, Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes, Dove-like mild, Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel. Montan swears In your lamps He will die for to delight her. Phoebe yield, Or I die : Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel? XXI. A VIRELAY. CCURST be love, and they that trust his trains; He brings the lamp, we lend the oil : Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains : Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains; He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art: He vows content, he pays with smart: He swears relief, yet kills the heart: He calls for truth, yet scorns desert. Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains. Whose heaven is hell; whose perfect joys are pains. |