I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature's plaint, The like to whom she could not paint: I know she swore with raging mind, That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain: 66 She could not make the like again." Sith Nature thus gave her the praise, To be the chiefest work she wrought, On your behalf might well be sought, To match the candle with the sun. The idea in the third and fourth stanzas of this song "that Nature lost the perfect mould," has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets; and is found in the literature of all European nations. IN AN ARBOUR GREEN. From the morality of "Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward VI. In an arbour green, asleep where as I lay, In youth is pleasure. Methought I walked still to and fro, Therefore my heart is sorely plight, Which is my joy and heart's delight; LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside in black letter. LOVE me little, love me long, Still I would not have thee cold, If thou lovest me too much, I am with little well content, To be steadfast friend. Love me little, love me long, &c. Say thou lov'st me while thou live, I to thee my love will give, Never dreaming to deceive, While that life endures: Nay, and after death in sooth, As now when in my May of youth, Love me little, love me long, &c. Constant love is moderate ever, A suit of durance let it be, Winter's cold or summer's heat, Never can rebel: Such the love that I would gain, Love me little, love me long, &c. IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR. If women could be fair and never fond, Or that their beauty might continue still To mark what choice they make, and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still, And how, like laggards, wild about they range, Scorning after reason to follow will; Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist, Yet for our sport, we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them on to yield by subtle oath, The sweet content that gives such humour ease; And then we say, when we their follies try, To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I! MAY NEVER WAS THE MONTH OF LOVE. From Morley's "Ballets," 1595, MAY never was the month of love, For love is full of showers. With soothing words, enthralling souls, Her little sweet hath many sours, Like winter rose, and summer ice, Fair first, in fine unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain, Seek other mistress for your mind, Love's service is in vain. ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. THOMAS LODGE, born 1556, died 1625. 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 if I sleep, then pierceth he And makes his pillow of my knee, The live long night; Strike I the lute, he tunes the string, He music plays, if I but sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting: B |