But little birds would carry tales 'Twixt Susan and her sweeting, And all the dainty nightingales Did sing at lovers' meeting: Then might you see what looks did pass And where the life of true love was Then yea and nay was thought an oath Then did they talk of curds and cream, A purse, a pair of knives, But now we have so much ado, Such choice of jewels, rings, and chains, And such intolerable pains Love in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, My kisses are his daily feast, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, 1 Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in; What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee; Spare not, but play thee! T. Lodge. LXXIX THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE That tolls all into heaven or hell: And this is Love, as I heard tell. 1 Saint's bell, quod ad sancta vocat. Another form is 'sacring bell,' the bell sounded at the elevation of the Host. THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE 77 MEL. Yet what is Love, I prithee say? It is December matched with May, Hear ten months after of the play: MEL. Yet what is Love, good Shepherd, sain ?1 It is a game where none doth gain; MEL. Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray? A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away; Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may: And this is Love, as I hear say. MEL. Yet what is Love, good Shepherd, show? A thing for one, a thing for moe; And he that proves shall find it so : 1 Say. LXXX YOUNGLING LOVE TELL me where is fancy bred, It is engendered in the eyes, Let us all ring fancy's knell : ALL. Ding dong, bell. Shakespeare. LXXXI LOVE SICKNESS LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries Heigh ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so? |