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And to itself the subtle air

Such sovereignty assumes,
That it receiv'd too large a share
From Nature's rich perfumes.

M. Drayton.



LIKE to the clear in highest sphere

Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded or in twines :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Resembling heaven by every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phæbus' smiling looks doth grace :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

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Her neck is like a stately tower

Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires ;

The Gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan

The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

T. Lodge.



When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights ;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing :
For we, who now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.



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Let others sing of Knights and Paladines
In aged accents and untimely words,
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wit records:
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes
Authentic shall my verse in time to come,
When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies !
Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb !



These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect
Against the Dark, and Time's consuming rage.

Though th' error of my youth in them appear,
Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

S. Daniel.



One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide and made my pains his prey.

Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalise;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise,

Not so (quod I); let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;
My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:

Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.



If thou survive my well-contented day
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall

And shall by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: "Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing

age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought To march in ranks of better equipage :

But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'



Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

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