Little suit at first shall win
Way to thy abasht desire,
But then will I hedge thee in,
Salamander-like with fire.

With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear;

We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there;

Other whiles we'll gather flowers,

Lying dallying on the grass;

And thus our delightful hours

Full of waking dreams shall pass.

When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee,

Old acquaintance then should grow as strange as strange might be:

Twenty rivals thou shouldst find

Breaking all their hearts for me,
While to all I'll prove more kind

And more forward than to thee.

Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy;

But alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never

fly.

Those sweet hours which we had pass'd,

Call'd to mind, thy heart would burn;

And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast,

They would make thee straight return.

T. Campion.

SILLY boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;

Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly.

Shortly will thou mourn when all thy pleasures are bereaved;

Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained;

All is artless now you speak, not one word yet is feigned;

All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed;

But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.

Thy well-order'd locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected;

And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected.

Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy,

And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.

Yet be just and constant still! Love may beget a wonder,

Not unlike a summer's frost, or winter's fatal thunder.

He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying,

Lives, of all that ever breath'd, most worthy the

envying.

T. Campion.

LXXXIX

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within his pretty shrine ; 1
And if I look the boy will lower,

And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,

And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers;
Then will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
T. Lodge.

1 v.l. 'their pretty shine.'

CARDS AND KISSES

XC

A CONSPIRACY

SWEET Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry : Out of thy golden quiver

Take thou thy strongest arrow

That will through bone and marrow,

And me and thee of grief and fear deliver :

But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
Alas! poor Love, then thou art woe-begone thee!
Anon.

XCI

CARDS AND KISSES

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses-Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin :
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

John Lyly.

87

XCII

O CUPID! monarch over kings,
Wherefore hast thou feet and wings?
It is to show how swift thou art
When thou wound'st a tender heart!
Thy wings being clipt, and feet held still,
Thy bow so many could not kill.

It is all one in Venus' wanton school,

Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool.
Fools in love's college

Have far more knowledge

To read a woman over

Than a neat prating lover:

Nay, 'tis confest

That fools please women best.

John Lyly.

XCIII

THE KISS

O, that joy so soon should waste!

Or so sweet a bliss

As a kiss

Might not for ever last!

So sugar'd, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,

When the morn herself discloses,

Is not so precious.

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