And to itself the subtle air

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

M. Drayton.

CXV

ROSALINE

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 Phoebus' smiling looks doth

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

grace:

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!

ROSALINE

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!

115

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.

CXVI

BEAUTY AND RHYME

1

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.
Shakespeare.

CXVII
2

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!

BEAUTY AND RHYME

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.

117

S. Daniel.

CXVIII

3

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 wipèd 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.

Spenser.

CXIX

If thou survive my well-contented day

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall

cover,

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.'

Shakespeare.

CXX

Nor 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.