SONNET. All ye that grieve to think my death so near, Can fire be cold, which yieldeth heat by kind? And you that see in what estate I stand, Now hot, now cold, and yet am living still, The man that dwells far north hath seldom harm If he abide within his native coast; So love in me a second nature is, And custom makes me think my woes are bliss. SONNET. Youth made a fault through lightness of belief, But now I find that reason gives relief, And time shows truth, and wit that's bought is best: Muse not therefore although I change my vein, He runs too far which never turns again. Henceforth my mind shall have a watchful eye, I'll scorn fond love, and practice of the same; The wisdom of my heart shall soon descry Each thing that's good from what deserveth blame. My song shall be, "Fortune hath spit her spite, And Love can hurt no more with all his might." Therefore all you, to whom my cause is known, Think better comes, and pardon what is past: I find that all my wildest oats are sown, And joy to see what now I see at last; And since that Love was cause I trod awry, I here take off his bells, and let him fly. THOMAS LODGE. 1556-1625. [" Rosalynde: Euphues Golden Legacie." 1581.] ROSADOR'S SONNETO. TURN I my looks unto the skies, Love then in every flower is found; E'en there I meet with sacred Love. He will be partner of my moan; ["The Phoenix Nest." 1593.] THE SHEPHERD'S SORROW FOR HIS PHEBE'S DISDAIN. O woods! unto your walks my body hies, To loose the traitorous bonds of 'ticing Love, From forth their tender stalks, to help mine eyes, When I behold the fair adornéd tree, Which lightning's force and winter's frost resists, And Phoebus' lawless pride Enforce me say, even such my sorrows be; If I behold the flowers by morning tears, Whereas my piteous plaint, that still appears, When I regard the pretty, gleeful bird, With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain, I yield a tenor with my tears, And whilst her music wounds mine ears, Alas! say I, when will my notes afford Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain? When I behold upon the leafless bough The hapless bird lament her love's depart, I draw her biding nigh, And, sitting down, I sigh, And sighing say, Alas! that birds avow A settled faith, yet Phoebe scorns my smart. Thus weary in my walk, and woeful too, My sorrow doth express; I doat on that which doth my heart undo, ["The Phoenix Nest."] Now I find thy looks were feignéd, Of thine eyes I made my mirror; Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Feigned acceptance, when I asked, Siren pleasant, foe to reason, |