I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found

A garland sweet, with true love-knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arms was bound,

That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I now lead an idle life in wishes.

And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

I, that did wear the ring her mother left,

I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,

I, who did make her blush when I was named: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs, till dead love be awaked?

I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,
Like jealousy o'erwatched with desire,
Was ever warned modesty to keep,

While her breath speaking kindled Nature's fire: Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?

Was it for this that I might Myra see

Washing the water with her beauties white? Yet would she never write her love to me;

Thinks wit of change while thoughts are in delight? Mad girls must safely love, as they may leave; No man can print a kiss; lines may deceive.

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke.

The Blossom

Little think'st thou, poor flower,

Whom I've watched six or seven days, And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, Little think'st thou,

That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.

Little think'st thou, poor heart,
That labourest yet to nestle thee,

And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,

And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow,
Little think'st thou,

That thou to-morrow, ere that sun doth wake,
Must with this sun and me a journey take.

But thou which lovest to be

Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,
Alas! if you must go, what's that to me?
Here lies my business, and here I will stay;
You go to friends, whose love and means present
Various content

To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part;
If then your body go, what need heart?

your

Well then, stay here; but know,

When thou hast stayed, and done thy most, A naked thinking heart, that makes no show, Is to a woman but a kind of ghost.

How shall she know my heart; or having none,

Know thee for one?

Practice may make her know some other part;
But take my word, she doth not know a heart.

Meet me at London, then,

Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see Me fresher, and more fat, by being with men, Than if I had stayed still with her and thee. For God's sake, if be you can, you so too;

I will give you

There to another friend, whom we shall find

As glad to have my body as my mind.

Donne.

214

Farewell, dear love! since thou wilt needs be gone: Mine eyes do show my life is almost done.

-Nay I will never die,

So long as I can spy;
There be many mo
Though that she do go.

There be many mo, I fear not;
Why, then, let her go, I care not.

Farewell, farewell! since this I find is true,
I will not spend more time in wooing you.
-But I will seek elsewhere

If I may find her there

Shall I bid her go?

What and if I do?

Shall I bid her go and spare not?

O no, no, no, no, I dare not.

Ten thousand times farewell! yet stay awhile.
Sweet, kiss me once, sweet kisses time beguile.
I have no power to move:
How now, am I in love!-
Wilt thou needs be gone?
Go then, all is one.

Wilt thou needs be gone? O hie thee!
Nay; stay, and do no more deny me.

Once more farewell! I see "Loth to depart”
Bids oft adieu to her that holds my heart:
But seeing I must lose

Thy love which I did choose,
Go thy ways for me,

Since it may not be:

Go thy ways for me, but whither
Go?-oh, but where I may come thither.

What shall I do? my love is now departed,
She is as fair as she is cruel-hearted:
She would not be entreated

With prayers oft repeated.
If she come no more,
Shall I die therefore?

If she come no more, what

care I?

-Faith, let her go, or come, or tarry.

If another you affect,

'Tis but a show, to avoid suspect.

Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing!

Your wished sight if I desire,
Suspicions you pretend:
Causeless you yourself retire,
While I in vain attend.
This a lover whets, you say,

Still made more eager by delay.
Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing!

When another holds your hand,

You swear I hold your heart:

When my rivals close do stand,

I

And I sit far apart,

am nearer yet than they,

Hid in your bosom, as you say.

Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing!

Would rival then I were,

my

Or else your secret friend: So much lesser should I fear,

And not so much attend. They enjoy you, every one,

Yet I must seem your friend alone.

Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing!

Campion.