Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred,
Love is not dead.

Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind:
Where she his counsell keepeth,
Till due desert she find.

Therefore from so vile fancie,
To call such wit a franzie,
Who love can temper thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoarie Winters night stood shiuering in the

snowe,

Surpris'd I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glowe,

And lifting vp a fearefull eye, to view what fire was

neere,

A prettie Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;

Who, scorched with excessiue heate, such floods of teares did shed,

As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares were bred:

Alas (quoth he), but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie, Yet none approach to warme their harts, or feele my fire but I;

My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:

Loue is the fire, and sighes the smoake, the ashes shames and scornes;

The fewell Iustice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the

coales,

The metall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:

For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.

With this he vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called vnto minde, that it was Christmasse day.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

TIMES GOE BY TURNES

THE lopped tree in time may grow againe,
Most naked plants renew both fruite and flower:
The sorriest wight may find release of paine,
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shower.
Times goe by turnes, and chaunces change by course,
From foule to faire: from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not euer flow,
She drawes her fauours to the lowest ebbe;
Her tides haue equall times to come and goe,

Her Loome doth weaue the fine and coarsest webbe.
No ioy so great, but runneth to an end:

No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.

Not alwaies fall of leafe, nor euer spring,
No endlesse night, nor yet eternall day:
The saddest Birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storme a calme may soone allay. Thus with succeeding turnes God tempereth all: That man may hope to rise, yet feare to fal.

A chaunce may winne that by mischaunce was lost,

That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Fewe all they neede: but none haue all they wish,
Vnmeddled ioyes heere to no man befall:

Who least, hath some, who most, hath neuer all.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

SONNET: WERE I AS BASE AS IS
THE LOWLY PLAINE

WERE I as base as is the lowly plaine,
And you (my loue) as high as heau'n aboue,
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swaine,
Ascend to heauen, in honour of my loue,
Were I as high as heau'n aboue the plaine,
And you (my loue) as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the Mayne,
Whereso'ere you were, with you my loue should go,
Were you the earth (deere loue) and I the skies,
My loue should shine on you like to the Sun,
And looke vpon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heau'n wax't blind, and till the world were dun.
Whereso'ere I am, below, or else aboue you,
Whereso'ere you are, my heart shall truly loue

you.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

SONNET: SINCE THER'S NO HELPE SINCE ther's no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part, Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me, And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart, That thus so cleanly, I my selfe can free, Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes, And when We meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our Browes, That We one iot of former Loue reteyne; Now at the last gaspe, of Loues latest Breath, When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death, And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes,

Now if thou would'st, when all haue giuen him ouer,

From Death to Life, thou might'st him yet recouer. MICHAEL DRAYTON.

THE MILKMAID'S SONG

COME liue with mee and be my loue,
And we will all the pleasures proue,
That vallies, groues, hills, and fieldes,
Woods, and steepie mountaine yeeldes.

Where we will sit vpon the Rocks,
And see the Sheepheards feede theyr flocks,
By shallow Riuers, to whose falls,
Melodious byrds sings Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses,
And then a thousand fragrant poesies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroydred all with leaues of Mirtle.

A gowne made of the finest wooll,
Which from our pretty Lambes we pull,
Fayre lined slippers for the cold:
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw, and Iuie buds,
With Corall clasps and Amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee moue,
Come liue with mee, and be my loue.

The Sheepheards Swaines shall daance and sing,
For thy delight each May-morning,
If these delights thy minde may moue;
Then liue with mee, and be my loue.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

SONNET XVII

WHO will beleeue my verse in time to come
If it were fild with your most high deserts?
Though yet heauen knowes it is but as a tombe
Which hides your life, and shewes not halfe your
parts:

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this Poet lies,

Such heauenly touches nere toucht earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorn'd, like old men of lesse truth then tongue,
And your true rights be termd a Poets rage,