The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing,
springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness !
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
But I, who, daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness !
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ;
T'hy thorn without, thorn
my
heart invadeth.
Sir P. Sidney.
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird as all forlorn
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu ! by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain :
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
R. Barnefield.
THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDESS WHILE that the sun with his beams hot
Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain, Philon the shepherd, late forgot, Sitting beside a crystal fountain
In shadow of a green oak tree,
Upon his pipe this song play'd he: Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love ! Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, your treasure; And evermore you sobb’d and sigh'd Burning in flames beyond all measure :
-Three days endured your love to me,
And it was lost in other three !
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love !
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another shepherd you did see
To whom
your heart was soon enchainèd ; Full soon your love was leapt from me, Full soon my place he had obtained.
Soon came a third your love to win,
And we were out and he was in. Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love ! Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure
you
have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon removed,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best beloved :
For all my love was pass’d and done
Two days before it was begun. Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love ! Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Anon.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovran eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
E’en so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun
staineth.
Shakespeare.
The earth, late choked with showers,
Is now array'd in green ;
Her bosom springs with flowers,
The air dissolves her teen,
The heavens laugh at her glory :
Yet bide I sad and sorry.
The woods are deckt with leaves,
And trees are clothed gay,
And Flora, crown'd with sheaves,
With oaken boughs doth play:
Where I am clad in black,
The token of
my
wrack.
The birds upon the trees
Do sing with pleasant voices, And chant in their degrees
Their loves and lucky choices :
When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.
The thrushes seek the shade,
And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,
My walk on earth I have:
They free, I thrall; they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.
T. Lodge.
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