MARK ALEXANDER BOYD Sonet

	Fra banc to banc fra wod to wod I rin
	Ourhailit with my feble fantasie
	Lyc til a leif that fallis from a trie
	Or til a reid ourblawin with the wind.
5	Twa gods gyds me the ane of tham is blind,
	Ye and a bairn brocht up in vanitie.
	The nixt a wyf ingenrit of the se,
	And lichter nor a dauphin with hir fin.
	Unhappie is the man for evirmaire
10	That teils the sand and sawis in the aire,
	Bot twyse unhappier is he I lairn
	That feidis in his hairt a mad desyre,
	And follows on a woman throw the fyre
	Led be a blind and teichit be a bairn

SIR HENRY LEE

	His Golden lockes, Time hath to Silver turn’d,
	O Time too swift, ô Swiftnesse never ceasing:
	His Youth gainst Time and Age hath ever spurn’d
	But spurn’d in vain, Youth waineth by increasing.
	Beauty Strength, Youth, are flowers, but fading seen,
	Dutie, Faith, Love are roots, and ever greene.

	His Helmet now, shall make a hive for Bees,
	And Lovers Sonets, turn’d to holy Psalmes:
	A man at Armes must now serve on his knees,
	And feede on praiers, which are Age his almes.
	But though from Court to Cottage he depart,
	His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

	And when he saddest sits in homely Cell,
	Heele teach his Swaines this Carroll for a Song,
	Blest be the heartes that wish my Soveraigne well,
	Curst be the soules that thinke her any wrong.
	Goddesse, allow this agèd man his right,
	To be your Beads-man now, that was your Knight.

EDMUND SPENSER from The Faerie Queene

from Book II, Canto XII [The Bower of Blisse Destroyed]

	Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,
	Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,
	Such as attonce might not on living ground,
	Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:
	Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,
	To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:
	For all that pleasing is to living care,
	Was there consorted in one harmonee,
	Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

	The joyous birdes shrouded in chearefull shade,
	Their notes unto the voyce attempred sweet;
	Th’Angelicall soft trembling voyces made
	To th’instruments divine respondence meet:
	The silver sounding instruments did meet
	With the base murmure of the waters fall:
	The waters fall with difference discreet,
	Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:
	The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

	There, whence that Musick seemed heard to bee,
	Was the faire Witch her selfe now solacing,
	With a new Lover, whom through sorceree
	And witchcraft, she from farre did thither bring:
	There she had him now layd a slombering,
	In secret shade, after long wanton joyes:
	Whilst round about them pleasauntly did sing
	Many faire Ladies, and lascivious boyes,
	That ever mixt their song with light licentious toyes.

	And all that while, right over him she hong,
	With her false eyes fast fixed in his sight,
	As seeking medicine, whence she was strong,
	Or greedily depasturing delight:
	And oft inclining downe with kisses light,
	For feare of waking him, his lips bedewd,
	And through his humid eyes did sucke his spright,
	Quite molten into lust and pleasure lewd;
	Wherewith she sighed soft, as if his case she rewd.

	The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;
	Ah see, who so faire thing doest faine to see,
	In springing flowre the image of thy day;
	Ah see the Virgin Rose, how sweetly shee
	Doth first peepe forth with bashfull modestee,
	That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may;
	Lo see soone after, how more bold and free
	Her bared bosome she doth broad display;
	Loe see soone after, how she fades, and falles away.

	So passeth, in the passing of a day,
	Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre,
	Ne more doth flourish after first decay,
	That earst was sought to decke both bed and bowre,
	Of many a Ladie, and many a Paramowre:
	Gather therefore the Rose, whilest yet is prime,
	For soone comes age, that will her pride deflowre:
	Gather the Rose of love, whilest yet is time,
	Whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime.

	He ceast, and then gan all the quire of birdes
	Their diverse notes t’attune unto his lay,
	As in approvance of his pleasing words.
	The constant paire heard all, that he did say,
	Yet swarved not, but kept their forward way,
	Through many covert groves, and thickets close,
	In which they creeping did at last display
	That wanton Ladie, with her lover lose,
	Whose sleepie head she in her lap did soft dispose.

	Upon a bed of Roses she was layd,
	As faint through heat, or dight to pleasant sin,
	And was arayd, or rather disarayd,
	All in a vele of silke and silver thin,
	That hid no whit her alablaster skin,
	But rather shewd more white, if more might bee:
	More subtle web Arachne can not spin,
	Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see
	Of scorched deaw, do not in th’aire more lightly flee.

	Her snowy brest was bare to readie spoyle
	Of hungry eies, which n’ote therewith be fild,
	And yet through languour of her late sweet toyle,
	Few drops, more cleare then Nectar, forth distild,
	That like pure Orient perles adowne it trild,
	And her faire eyes sweet smyling in delight,
	Moystened their fierie beames, with which she thrild
	Fraile harts, yet quenched not; like starry light
	Which sparckling on the silent waves, does seeme more bright.

	The young man sleeping by her, seemd to bee
	Some goodly swayne of honorable place,
	That certes it great pittie was to see
	Him his nobilitie so foule deface;
	A sweet regard, and amiable grace,
	Mixed with manly sternnesse did appeare
	Yet sleeping, in his well proportiond face,
	And on his tender lips the downy heare
	Did now but freshly spring, and silken blossomes beare.

	His warlike armes, the idle instruments
	Of sleeping praise, were hong upon a tree,
	And his brave shield, full of old moniments,
	Was fowly ra’st, that none the signes might see;
	Ne for them, ne for honour cared hee,
	Ne ought, that did to his advauncement tend,
	But in lewd loves, and wastfull luxuree,
	His dayes, his goods, his bodie he did spend:
	O horrible enchantment, that him so did blend.

	The noble Elfe, and carefull Palmer drew
	So nigh them, minding nought, but lustfull game,
	That suddein forth they on them rusht, and threw
	A subtile net, which onely for the same
	The skilfull Palmer formally did frame.
	So held them under fast, the whiles the rest
	Fled all away for feare of fowler shame.
	The faire Enchauntresse, so unwares opprest,
	Tryde all her arts, and all her sleights, thence out to wrest.

	And eke her lover strove: but all in vaine;
	For that same net so cunningly was wound,
	That neither guile, nor force might it distraine.
	They tooke them both, and both them strongly bound
	In captive bandes, which there they readie found:
	But her in chaines of adamant he tyde;
	For nothing else might keepe her safe and sound;
	But Verdant (so he hight) he soone untyde,
	And counsell sage in steed thereof to him applyde.

	But all those pleasant bowres and Pallace brave,
	Guyon broke downe, with rigour pittilesse;
	Ne ought their goodly workmanship might save
	Them from the tempest of his wrathfulnesse,
	But that their blisse he turn’d to balefulnesse:
	Their groves he feld, their gardins did deface,
	Their arbers spoyle, their Cabinets suppresse,
	Their banket houses burne, their buildings race,
	And of the fairest late, now made the fowlest place.

from Book III, Canto VI [The Gardin of Adonis]

	In that same Gardin all the goodly flowres,
	Wherewith dame Nature doth her beautifie,
	And decks the girlonds of her paramoures,
	Are fetcht: there is the first seminarie
	Of all things, that are borne to live and die,
	According to their kindes. Long worke it were,
	Here to account the endlesse progenie
	Of all the weedes, that bud and blossome there;
	But so much as doth need, must needs be counted here.

	It sited was in fruitfull soyle of old,
	And girt in with two walles on either side;
	The one of yron, the other of bright gold,
	That none might thorough breake, nor over-stride:
	And double gates it had, which opened wide,
	By which both in and out men moten pas;
	Th’one faire and fresh, the other old and dride:
	Old Genius the porter of them was,
	Old Genius, the which a double nature has.

	He letteth in, he letteth out to wend,
	All that to come into the world desire;
	A thousand thousand naked babes attend
	About him day and night, which doe require,
	That he with fleshly weedes would them attire:
	Such as him list, such as eternall fate
	Ordained hath, he clothes with sinfull mire,
	And sendeth forth to live in mortall state,
	Till they againe returne backe by the hinder gate.

	After that they againe returned beene,
	They in that Gardin planted be againe;
	And grow afresh, as they had never seene
	Fleshly corruption, nor mortall paine.
	Some thousand yeares so doen they there remaine;
	And then of him are clad with other hew,
	Or sent into the chaungefull world againe,
	Till thither they returne, where first they grew:
	So like a wheele around they runne from old to new.

	Ne needs there Gardiner to set, or sow,
	To plant or prune: for of their owne accord
	All things, as they created were, doe grow,
	And yet remember well the mightie word,
	Which first was spoken by th’Almightie lord,
	That bad them to increase and multiply:
	Ne doe they need with water of the ford,
	Or of the clouds to moysten their roots dry;
	For in themselves eternall moisture they imply.

	Infinite shapes of creatures there are bred,
	And uncouth formes, which none yet ever knew,
	And every sort is in a sundry bed
	Set by it selfe, and ranckt in comely rew:
	Some fit for reasonable soules t’indew,
	Some made for beasts, some made for birds to weare,
	And all the fruitfull spawne of fishes hew
	In endlesse rancks along enraunged were,
	That seem’d the Ocean could not containe them there.

	Daily they grow, and daily forth are sent
	Into the world, it to replenish more;
	Yet is the stocke not lessened, nor spent,
	But still remaines in everlasting store,
	As it at first created was of yore.
	For in the wide wombe of the world there lyes,
	In hatefull darkenesse and in deepe horrore,
	An huge eternall Chaos, which supplyes
	The substances of natures fruitfull progenyes.

	All things from thence doe their first being fetch,
	And borrow matter, whereof they are made,
	Which when as forme and feature it does ketch,
	Becomes a bodie, and doth then invade
	The state of life, out of the griesly shade.
	That substance is eterne, and bideth so,
	Ne when the life decayes, and forme does fade,
	Doth it consume, and into nothing go,
	But chaunged is, and often altred to and fro.

	The substance is not chaunged, nor altered,
	But th’only forme and outward fashion;
	For every substance is conditioned
	To change her hew, and sundry formes to don,
	Meet for her temper and complexion:
	For formes are variable and decay,
	By course of kind, and by occasion;
	And that faire flowre of beautie fades away,
	As doth the lilly fresh before the sunny ray.

	Great enimy to it, and to all the rest,
	That in the Gardin of >Adonis springs,
	Is wicked Time, who with his scyth addrest,
	Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things,
	And all their glory to the ground downe flings,
	Where they doe wither, and are fowly mard:
	He flyes about, and with his flaggy wings
	Beates down both leaves and buds without regard,
	Ne ever pittie may relent his malice hard.

	Yet pittie often did the gods relent,
	To see so faire things mard, and spoyled quight:
	And their great mother Venus did lament
	The losse of her deare brood, her deare delight;
	Her hart was pierst with pittie at the sight,
	When walking through the Gardin, them she spyde,
	Yet no’te she find redresse for such despight.
	For all that lives, is subject to that law:
	All things decay in time, and to their end do draw.

	But were it not, that Time their troubler is,
	All that in this delightful Gardin growes,
	Should happie be, and have immortall blis:
	For here all plentie, and all pleasure flowes,
	And sweet love gentle fits emongst them throwes,
	Without fell rancor, or fond gealosie;
	Franckly each paramour his leman knowes,
	Each bird his mate, ne any does envie
	Their goodly meriment, and gay felicitie.

	There is continuall spring, and harvest there
	Continuall, both meeting at one time:
	For both the boughes doe laughing blossomes beare,
	And with fresh colours decke the wanton Prime,
	And eke attonce the heavy trees they clime,
	Which seeme to labour under their fruits lode:
	The whiles the joyous birdes make their pastime
	Emongst the shadie leaves, their sweet abode,
	And their true loves without suspition tell abrode.

from Book III, Canto XI [Britomart in the House of the Enchanter Busyrane]

	And at the upper end of that faire rowme,
	There was an Altar built of pretious stone,
	Of passing valew, and of great renowme,
	On which there stood an Image all alone,
	Of massy gold, which with his owne light shone;
	And wings it had with sundry colours dight,
	More sundry colours, then the proud Pavone
	Beares in his boasted fan, or Iris bright,
	When her discolourd bow she spreds through heaven bright.

	Blindfold he was, and in his cruell fist
	A mortall bow and arrowes keene did hold,
	With which he shot at random, when him list,
	Some headed with sad lead, some with pure gold;
	(A man beware, how thou those darts behold)
	A wounded Dragon under him did ly,
	Whose hideous tayle his left foot did enfold,
	And with a shaft was shot through either eye,
	That no man forth might draw, ne no man remedye.

	And underneath his feet was written thus,
	Unto the Victor of the Gods this bee:
	And all the people in that ample hous
	Did to that image bow their humble knee,
	And oft committed fowle Idolatree.
	That wondrous sight faire Britomart amazed,
	Ne seeing could her wonder satisfie,
	But ever more and more upon it gazed,
	The whiles the passing brightnes her fraile sences dazed.

	Tho as she backward cast her busie eye,
	To search each secret of that goodly sted
	Over the dore thus written she did spye
	Be bold: she oft and oft it over-red,
	Yet could not find what sence it figured:
	But what so were therein or writ or ment,
	She was no whit thereby discouraged
	From prosecuting of her first intent,
	But forward with bold steps into the next roome went.

	Much fairer, then the former, was that roome,
	And richlier by many partes arayd:
	For not with arras made in painefull loome,
	But with pure gold it all was overlayd,
	Wrought with wilde Antickes, which their follies playd,
	In the rich metall, as they living were:
	A thousand monstrous formes therein were made,
	Such as false love doth oft upon him weare,
	For love in thousand monstrous formes doth oft appeare.

	And all about, the glistring walles were hong
	With warlike spoiles, and with victorious prayes,
	Of mighty Conquerours and Captaines strong,
	Which were whilome captived in their dayes
	To cruell love, and wrought their owne decayes:
	Their swerds and speres were broke, and hauberques rent;
	And their proud girlonds of tryumphant bayes
	Troden in dust with fury insolent,
	To shew the victors might and mercilesse intent.

	The warlike Mayde beholding earnestly
	The goodly ordinance of this rich place,
	Did greatly wonder ne could satisfie
	Her greedy eyes with gazing a long space,
	But more she mervaild that no footings trace,
	Nor wight appear’d, but wastefull emptinesse,
	And solemne silence over all that place:
	Straunge thing it seem’d, that none was to possesse
	So rich purveyance, ne them keepe with carefulnesse.

	And as she lookt about, she did behold,
	How over that same dore was likewise writ,
	Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold,
	That much she muz’d, yet could not construe it
	By any ridling skill, or commune wit.
	At last she spyde at that roomes upper end,
	Another yron dore, on which was writ,
	Be not too bold; whereto though she did bend
	Her earnest mind, yet wist not what it might intend.

	Thus she there waited untill eventyde,
	Yet living creature none she saw appeare:
	And now sad shadowes gan the world to hyde,
	From mortall vew, and wrap in darkenesse dreare;
	Yet nould she d’off her weary armes, for feare
	Of secret daunger, ne let sleepe oppresse
	Her heavy eyes with natures burdein deare,
	But drew her selfe aside in sickernesse,
	And her welpointed weapons did about her dresse.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY from Astrophil and Stella 1591

	1
	Loving in truth, and faine in verse my love to show,
	That she deare she might take some pleasure of my paine:
	Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,
	Knowledge might pitie winne, and pitie grace obtaine,
	I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
	Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertaine:
	Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
	Some fresh and fruitfull showers upon my sunne-burn’d braine.
	But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay,
	Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Studie’s blowes,
	And others’ feete still seem’d but strangers in my way.
	Thus great with child to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,
	Biting my trewand pen, beating my selfe for spite,
	‘Foole,’ said my Muse to me, ‘looke in thy heart and write.’

	31
	With how sad steps, ô Moone, thou climb’st the skies,
	How silently, and with how wanne a face,
	What, may it be that even in heav’nly place
	That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?
	Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes
	Can judge of Love, thou feel’st a Lover’s case;
	I reade it in thy lookes, thy languisht grace,
	To me that feele the like, thy state descries.
	Then ev’n of fellowship, ô Moone, tell me
	Is constant Love deem’d there but want of wit?
	Are Beauties there as proud as here they be?
	Do they above love to be lov’d, and yet
	Those Lovers scorne whom that Love doth possesse?
	Do they call Vertue there ungratefulnesse?

	33
	I might, unhappie word, ô me, I might,
	And then would not, or could not see my blisse:
	Till now, wrapt in a most infernall night,
	I find how heav’nly day wretch I did misse.
	Hart rent thy selfe, thou doest thy selfe but right,
	No lovely Paris made thy Hellen his:
	No force, no fraud, robd thee of thy delight,
	Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is:
	But to my selfe my selfe did give the blow,
	While too much wit (forsooth) so troubled me,
	That I respects for both our sakes must show:
	And yet could not by rising Morne foresee
	How faire a day was neare, ô punisht eyes,
	That I had bene more foolish or more wise.

THOMAS CAMPION

	Harke, al you ladies that do sleep;
	The fayry queen Proserpina
	Bids you awake and pitie them that weep.
	You may doe in the darke
	What the day doth forbid;
	Feare not the dogs that barke,
	Night will have all hid.

	But if you let your lovers mone,
	The Fairie Queene Proserpina
	Will send abroad her Fairies ev’ry one,
	That shall pinch blacke and blew
	Your white hands and faire armes
	That did not kindly rue
	Your Paramours harmes.

	In Myrtle Arbours on the downes
	The Fairie Queene Proserpina,
	This night by moone-shine leading merrie rounds
	Holds a watch with sweet love,
	Downe the dale, up the hill;
	No plaints or groanes may move
	Their holy vigill.

	All you that will hold watch with love,
	The Fairie Queene Proserpina
	Will make you fairer than Dione’s dove;
	Roses red, Lillies white,
	And the cleare damaske hue,
	Shall on your cheekes alight:
	Love will adorne you.

	All you that love, or lov’d before,
	The Fairie Queene Proserpina
	Bids you encrease that loving humour more:
	They that yet have not fed
	On delight amorous,
	She vowes that they shall lead
	Apes in Avernus.

SIR JOHN HARINGTON from Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, in English Heroical Verse

	[Astolfo flies by Chariot to the Moon, where he collects Orlando’s lost wits]
	I say although the fire were wondrous hot,
	Yet in their passage they no heat did feele,
	So that it burnd them, nor offends them not;
	Thence to the moone he guids the running wheele,
	The Moone was like a glasse all voyd of spot,
	Or like a peece of purelie burnisht steele,
	And lookt, although to us it seems so small,
	Well nye as bigg as earth, and sea and all.

	Here had Astolfo cause of double wonder,
	One, that that region seemeth there so wyde,
	That unto us that are so far a sunder,
	Seems but a little circle, and beside,
	That to behold the ground that him lay under,
	A man had need to have been sharply eyd,
	And bend his brows, and marke ev’n all they might,
	It seemed so small, now chiefly wanting light.

	Twere infinit to tell what wondrous things
	He saw, that passed ours not few degrees,
	What towns, what hills, what rivers and what springs
	What dales, what Pallaces, what goodly trees:
	But to be short, at last his guide him brings,
	Unto a goodlie vallie, where he sees,
	A mightie masse of things straungely confused,
	Things that on earth were lost, or were abused.

	A store house straunge, that what on earth is lost,
	By fault, by time, by fortune, there is found,
	And like a marchaundise is there engrost,
	In straunger sort then I can well expound:
	Nor speake I sole of wealth, or things of cost,
	In which blind fortunes powre doth most abound,
	But ev’n of things quite out of fortunes powre,
	Which wilfullie we wast each day and houre.

	The precious time that fools mispend in play,
	The vaine attempts that never take effect,
	The vows that sinners make, and never pay,
	The counsells wise that carelesse men neglect,
	The fond desires that lead us oft astray,
	The prayses that with pride the heart infect,
	And all we loose with follie and mispending,
	May there be found unto this place ascending.

	Now, as Astolfo by those regions past,
	He asked many questions of his guide,
	And as he on tone side his eye did cast,
	A wondrous hill of bladders he espyde;
	And he was told they had been in time past,
	The pompous crowns and scepters, full of pride,
	Of Monarks of Assiria, and of Greece,
	Of which now scantlie there is left a peece.

	He saw great store of baited hookes with gold,
	And those were gifts that foolish men prepard,
	To give to Princes covetous and old,
	With fondest hope of future vaine reward:
	Then were there ropes all in sweet garlands rold,
	And those were all false flatteries he hard,
	Then hard he crickets songs like to the verses,
	The servant in his masters prayse reherses.

	There did he see fond loves, that men pursew,
	To looke like golden gyves with stones all set,
	Then things like Eagles talents he did vew,
	Those offices that favorites do get:
	Then saw he bellows large that much winde blew,
	Large promises that Lords make, and forget,
	Unto their Ganimeds in flowre of youth,
	But after nought but beggerie insewth.

	He saw great Cities seated in fayre places,
	That overthrown quite topsie turvie stood,
	He askt and learnd, the cause of their defaces
	Was treason, that doth never turne to good:
	He saw fowle serpents, with fayre womens faces,
	Of coyners and of thieves the cursed brood,
	He saw fine glasses, all in peeces broken,
	Of service lost in court, a wofull token.

	Of mingled broth he saw a mightie masse,
	That to no use, all spilt on ground did lye,
	He askt his teacher, and he heard it was,
	The fruitlesse almes that men geve when they dye:
	Then by a fayre green mountain he did passe,
	That once smelt sweet, but now it stinks perdye,
	This was that gift (be’t said without offence)
	That Constantin gave Silvester long since.

	Of birdlymd rodds, he saw no litle store,
	And these (O Ladies fayre) your bewties be,
	I do omit ten thousand things and more
	Like unto these, that there the Duke did see
	For all that here is lost, there evermore
	Is kept, and thither in a trise doth flee,
	Howbeit more nor lesse there was no folly,
	For still that here with us remaineth wholly.

	He saw some of his own lost time and deeds,
	But yet he knew them not to be his own,
	They seemed to him disguisd in so straunge weeds,
	Till his instructer made them better known:
	But last, the thing which no man thinks he needs,
	Yet each man needeth most, to him was shown,
	By name mans wit, which here we leese so fast,
	As that one substance, all the other past.

	It seemd to be a body moyst and soft,
	And apt to mount by ev’ry exhalation,
	And when it hither mounted was aloft,
	It there was kept in potts of such a fashion,
	As we call Jarrs, where oyle is kept in oft:
	The Duke beheld with no small admiration,
	The Jarrs of wit, amongst which one had writ,
	Upon the side thereof, Orlandos wit.

	This vessell bigger was then all the rest,
	And ev’ry vessell had ingrav’n with art,
	His name, that earst the wit therein possest:
	There of his own, the Duke did finde a part,
	And much he musd, and much him selfe he blest,
	To see some names of men of great desart,
	That thinke they have great store of wit, and bost it,
	And here it playne appeard they quite had lost it.

	Some loose their wit with love, some with ambition,
	Some running to the sea, great wealth to get,
	Some following Lords, and men of high condition,
	And some in fayre jewells ritch and costlie set,
	One hath desire to prove a rare magicion,
	And some with Poetrie their wit forget,
	An other thinks to be an Alcumist,
	Till all be spent, and he his number mist.

JOHN LYLY from Midas 1592

	PAN
	Pan’s Syrinx was a Girle indeed,
	Though now shee’s turn’d into a Reed,
	From that deare Reed Pan’s Pipe does come,
	A Pipe that strikes Apollo dumbe;
	Nor Flute, nor Lute, nor Gitterne can
	So chant it, as the Pipe of Pan;
	Cross-gartred Swaines, and Dairie girles,
	With faces smug, and round as Pearles,
	When Pans shrill Pipe begins to play,
	With dancing weare out Night and Day:
	The Bag-pipes Drone his Hum layes by,
	When Pan sounds up his Minstrelsie,
	His Minstrelsie! O Base! This Quill
	Which at my mouth with winde I fill,
	Puts me in minde, though Her I misse,
	That still my Syrinx lips I kisse.

SAMUEL DANIEL from Delia

	45
	Care-charmer sleepe, sonne of the Sable night,
	Brother to death, in silent darknes borne:
	Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
	With darke forgetting of my cares returne.
	And let the day be time enough to morne,
	The shipwrack of my ill-adventred youth:
	Let waking eyes suffice to wayle theyr scorne,
	Without the torment of the nights untruth.
	Cease dreames, th’ymagery of our day desires,
	To modell foorth the passions of the morrow:
	Never let rysing Sunne approve you lyers,
	To adde more griefe to aggravat my sorrow.
	Still let me sleepe, imbracing clowdes in vaine;
	And never wake, to feele the dayes disdayne.

HENRY CONSTABLE

	Deere to my soule, then leave me not forsaken,
	Flie not, my hart within thy bosome sleepeth:
	Even from my selfe and sense I have betaken
	Mee unto thee, for whom my spirit weepeth;
	And on the shoare of that salt tearie sea,
	Couch’d in a bed of unseene seeming pleasure
	Where, in imaginarie thoughts thy faire selfe lay,
	But being wakt, robd of my lives best treasure,
	I call the heavens, ayre, earth, and seas, to heare
	My love, my trueth, and black disdaind estate:
	Beating the rocks with bellowings of dispaire,
	Which stil with plaints my words reverbarate.
	Sighing, ‘Alas, what shall become of me?’
	Whilst Eccho cryes, ‘What shal become of me?’

SIR WALTER RALEGH The Lie

	Goe soule the bodies guest
	upon a thankelesse arrant,
	Feare not to touch the best
	the truth shall be thy warrant.
	Goe since I needs must die
	and give the world the lie.

	Say to the Court it glowes
	and shines like rotten wood,
	Say to the Church it showes
	what’s good, and doth noe good.
	If Church and Court reply
	then give them both the lie.

	Tell potentates they live
	acting by others action,
	Not loved unlesse they give,
	not strong but by affection:
	If potentates reply
	give potentates the lie.

	Tell men of high condition,
	that manage the Estate,
	Their purpose is ambition,
	their practise only hate,
	And if they once reply
	then give them all the lie.

	Tell them that brave it most,
	they beg for more by spending
	Who in their greatest cost
	seek nothing, but commending.
	And if they make reply,
	then give them all the lie.

	Tell zeale it wants devotion
	tell love it is but lust,
	Tell time it meets but motion
	tell flesh it is but dust.
	And wish them not reply
	for thou must give the lie.

	Tell age it daily wasteth,
	tell honor how it alters.
	Tel beauty how she blasteth
	tell favour how it falters
	And as they shall reply,
	give every one the lie.

	Tell wit how much it wrangles
	in tickle points of nycenesse,
	Tell wisedome she entangles
	her selfe in over-wisenesse.
	And when they do reply
	straight give them both the lie.

	Tell Phisick of her boldnes,
	tel skill it is prevention
	Tel charity of coldnes,
	tell Law it is contention,
	And as they doe reply
	so give them still the lie.

	Tell Fortune of her blindnesse,
	tel nature of decay,
	Tel friendship of unkindnesse,
	tel Justice of delay.
	And if they wil reply,
	then give them all the lie.

	Tell Arts they have no soundnes,
	but vary by esteeming,
	Tel schooles they want profoundnes
	and stand to much on seeming.
	If Arts and Schooles reply,
	give arts and schooles the lie.

	Tell faith it’s fled the Citie,
	tell how the country erreth
	Tel manhood shakes of pitty
	tel vertue least preferreth,
	And if they doe reply,
	spare not to give the lie.

	So when thou hast as I,
	commanded thee, done blabbing,
	Because to give the lie,
	deserves no lesse then stabbing,
	Stab at thee, he that will,
	no stab thy soule can kill.

(1608)

from The Phoenix Nest 1593

ANONYMOUS

	Praisd be Dianas faire and harmles light,
	Praisd be the dewes, wherwith she moists the ground;
	Praisd be hir beames, the glorie of the night,
	Praisd be hir powre, by which all powres abound.

	Praisd be hir Nimphs, with whom she decks the woods,
	Praisd be hir knights, in whom true honor lives,
	Praisd be that force, by which she moves the floods,
	Let that Diana shine, which all these gives.

	In heaven Queene she is among the spheares,
	In ay she Mistres-like makes all things pure,
	Eternitie in hir oft chaunge she beares,
	She beautie is, by hir the faire endure.

	Time weares hir not, she doth his chariot guide,
	Mortalitie belowe hir orbe is plaste,
	By hir the vertue of the starrs downe slide,
	In hir is vertues perfect image cast.

	A knowledge pure it is hir worth to kno,
	With Circes let them dwell that thinke not so.

THOMAS LODGE The Sheepheards Sorrow, Being Disdained in Love

	Muses helpe me, sorrow swarmeth,
	Eies are fraught with seas of languish,
	Haples hope my solace harmeth:
	Mindes repast is bitter anguish.

	Eie of daie regarded never,
	Certaine trust in world untrustie,
	Flattring hope beguileth ever:
	Wearie olde, and wanton lustie.

	Dawne of day, beholdes inthroned,
	Fortunes darling proud and dreadles:
	Darksome night doth heare him moned,
	Who before was rich and needles.

	Rob the spheare of lines united;
	Make a sudden voide in nature:
	Force the day to be benighted;
	Reave the cause of time, and creature.

	Ere the world will cease to varie:
	This I weepe for, this I sorrow:
	Muses if you please to tarie,
	Further helpe I meane to borrow.

	Courted once by fortunes favor,
	Compast now with envies curses:
	All my thoughts of sorrowes savor,
	Hopes run fleeting like the Sourses.

	Ay me wanton scorne hath maimed
	All the joies my hart enjoied:
	Thoughts their thinking have disclaimed,
	Hate my hopes have quite annoied.

	Scant regard my weale hath scanted:
	Looking coie hath forst my lowring:
	Nothing likte, where nothing wanted,
	Weds mine eies to ceasles showring.

	Former Love was once admired,
	Present favor is estranged:
	Loath’d the pleasure long desired;
	Thus both men and thoughts are changed.

	Lovely Swaine with luckie speeding,
	Once (but now no more) so frended:
	Thou my flocks hast had in feeding,
	From the morne, till day was ended.

	Drinke and fodder, foode and folding,
	Had my lambes and ewes togeather:
	I with them was still beholding,
	Both in warmth, and winter weather.

	Now they languish since refused,
	Ewes and lambes are paind with pining:
	I with ewes and lambes confused,
	All unto our deathes declining.

	Silence leave thy cave obscured,
	Daine a dolefull Swaine to tender,
	Though disdaines I have endured,
	Yet I am no deepe offender.

	Philips sonne can with his finger,
	Hide his scar, it is so little:
	Little sinne a day to linger,
	Wise men wander in a tittle.

	Trifles yet my Swaine have turned,
	Tho my sonne he never showeth:
	Tho I weepe, I am not mourned,
	Tho I want, no pitie groweth.

	Yet for pitie love my muses,
	Gentle silence be their cover,
	They must leave their wonted uses,
	Since I leave to be a Lover.

	They shall live with thee inclosed,
	I will loath my pen and paper:
	Art shall never be supposed,
	Sloth shall quench the watching taper.

	Kisse them silence, kisse them kindely,
	Tho I leave them, yet I love them:
	Tho my wit have led them blindely,
	Yet my Swaine did once approve them.

	I will travell soiles removed,
	Night and morning never merie,
	Thou shalt harbor that I loved,
	I will love that makes me wearie.

	If perchaunce the Shepherd straieth,
	In thy walks and shades unhaunted,
	Tell the Teene my hart betraieth,
	How neglect my joyes have daunted.