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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

Where shepherds did assemble,
And where the life of true love was

When hearts could not dissemble.

Then
yea
and

nay was thought an oath
That was not to be doubted;
And when it came to faith and troth

We were not to be flouted.
Then did they talk of curds and cream,

Of butter, cheese, and milk;
There was no speech of sunny beam

Nor of the golden silk,
Then for a gift a row of pins,

A purse, a pair of knives,
Was all the way that love begins ;

And so the shepherd wives.

But now we have so much ado,

And are so sore aggrieved,
That when we go about to woo

We cannot be believed.
Such choice of jewels, rings, and chains,
That
may

but favour move, And such intolerable pains

Ere one can hit on love;

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

75

That if I still shall bide this life

'Twixt love and deadly hate, I will go learn the country life, Or leave the lover's state.

N. Breton.

LXXVIII

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet :
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ;
His music plays if so I sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:

Whist, wanton, still ye!

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Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence.
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin.
-Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy

With
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee !

T. Lodge.

many a rod ?

LXXIX

THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE
MELIBEUS. SHEPHERD, what's Love, I pray thee tell?
Faustus. It is that fountain and that well

Where pleasures and repentance dwell ;
It is perhaps that sauncing belli

That tolls all into heaven or hell:

And this is Love, as I heard tell. i Saint's bell, quod ad sancta vocat. Another form is 'sacring bell,' the bell sounded at the elevation of the Host.

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THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE 77

MEL. Yet what is Love, I prithee say?
Faust. It is a work on holiday;

It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array

Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Mel. Yet what is Love, good Shepherd, sain ?
Faust. It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;

It is a toothache, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain ;

The lass saith no, and would full fain;
And this is Love, as I hear sain.

Mel. Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray?
Faust. It is a yea, it is a nay;

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!
Faust. A thing that creeps ; it cannot go ;

A prize that passeth to and fro;
A thing for one, a thing for moe;

And he that proves shall find it so:
And, Shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

Sir W. Raleigh.

1 Say.

LXXX

YOUNGLING LOVE

Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head ?
How begot, how nourished ?

Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed ; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring fancy's knell :

I'll begin it, -Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding dong, bell.

Shakespeare.

LXXXI

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LOVE SICKNESS
Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

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 ?

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