THE UNWILLING ONE

And had she pity to conjoin with those,

Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?

For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,

169

My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. S. Daniel.

CLXXXVIII

THOU art not fair, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosy ornaments in thee;
Thou art not sweet, tho' made of mere delight,
Nor fair, nor sweet-unless thou pity me.
I will not soothe thy fancies: thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beauty without love.

Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure

My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,

I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine : Now show it, if thou by a woman right,— Embrace and kiss and love me in despite.

T. Campion.

CLXXXIX

THE UNWILLING ONE

АH! were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.

Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under wide heavens, but yet there is none such.

So as she shows she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sov'ran of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower.

Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

R. Greene.

CXC

FIRE that must flame is with apt fuel fed;
Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred;
How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?
Or can he love on whom no comfort shines?

Fair! I confess there's pleasure in your sight:
Sweet! you have power, I grant, of all delight:
But what is all to me, if I have none ?

Churl that you are, t' enjoy such wealth alone!

Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you;
Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view ;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,

As well as in your looks, Heaven in your mind.

THE LOVER CURSETH FIRST LOVE

171

Saint of my heart, Queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain;
But with one touch of
grace cure all my pain!
T. Campion.

CXCI

THE LOVER CURSETH THE TIME WHEN FIRST HE FELL IN LOVE

WHEN first mine eyes did view and mark
Thy beauty fair for to behold,

And when mine ears 'gan first to hark

The pleasant words that thou me told;

I would as then I had been free
From ears to hear and eyes to see.

And when my hands did handle oft,
That might thee keep in memory,
And when my feet had gone so soft
To find and have thy company;
I would each hand a foot had been,
And eke each foot a hand had seen.

And when in mind I did consent

To follow thus my fancy's will,
And when my heart did first relent

To taste such bait myself to spill,
I would my heart had been as thine,
Or else thy heart as soft as mine.

Then should not I such cause have found
To wish this monstrous sight to see,
Nor thou, alas! that madest the wound,
Should not deny me remedy:

Then should one will in both remain,

To ground one heart which now is twain.

W. Hunnis (?).

CXCII

O CRUDELIS AMOR

O GENTLE Love, ungentle for thy deed,

Thou mak'st my heart

A bloody mark

With piercing shot to bleed.

Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot amiss; For fear too keen

Thy arrows been,

And hit the heart where my Beloved is.

Too fair that fortune were, nor never I

Shall be so blest,

Among the rest,

That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.

Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,

This doth remain

To cease my pain,

I take the wound and die at Venus' foot.

Geo. Peele.

A LOVER'S DIRGE

173

СХСІЇІ

VOBISCUM EST OPE, VOBISCUM CANDIDA TYRO

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admired guest,

The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish'd love

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can

move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
T. Campion.

CXCIV

A LOVER'S DIRGE

COME away, come away, death, And in sad cypres1 let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.

1 Cypres, crape. Cf. Autolycus' song

and Milton's

'Lawn as white as driven snow,
Cypres black as e'er was crow.'

'Sable stole of cypres-lawn.'-Il Penseroso.