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PO E TS.
ODE. THE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale, with feathers new, she sings, The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come: for every spray now springs. The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he Alings, The fishes float, with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she fings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies small; The busy bee, her honey now she mings, Winter is gone, that was the flower's bale; And thus I see, among these pleasant things, Each care decays, and get my sorrow springs!
GIVE place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
And thereto hath a truth as just,
I could rehearse, if that I would,
I know she swore, with raging mind,
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
SONNETS. FROM Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat; The Western Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat ; Fostered she was, with milk of Irish breast : Her Sire an earl, her Dame of princes' blood; From tender years in Britain she doth rest With King's child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyne;
me e'en where the Sun doth parch the green, Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice ; In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen; In presence press'd of people, mad or wise; Set me in high, or yet in low degree; In longest night, or in the shortest day; In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be; In lusty youth, or when the hairs are grey ; Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell, On bill or dale, or on the foaming flood : Thrall’d, or at large; wherever so I dwell, Sick, or in health; in evil fame, or good; Her's will I be, and only with this thought, Content myself, although my chance be nought,
ALAS! so all things, now do hold their peace,
Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease ; The night's chair now the stars about doth bring; Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less ! So am not I; whom Love, alaş! doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires; whereas I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case: For my sweet thoughts, some time do pleasure bring But, by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting; When that I think what grief it is, again, To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
Y lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun : And when this song is sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection: So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil which thou hast got Of simple Hearts through Love's shot, By whom (unkind!) thou hast them won Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain: Think not alone under the Sun Unquit to cause thy Lover's plaine, Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie withered and old In winter nights that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told, Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute: this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun ; Now is this Song both sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done.
SIR THOMAS WYAT. SINCE love will needs that I must love,
Of very force I must agree:
Though for good-will I find but hate,
There is no grief, no smart, no woe,
YOUR looks so often cast,
Your eyes so friendly rolld,
Fain would ye find a cloak