COME live with me, and be my love, And we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Love, mistress is of many minds, KIT MARLOW. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. The will she robbeth from the wit, She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill; She offereth joy, affordeth grief, A honey-shower rains from her lips, Sweet lights shine in her face ; She hath the blush of virgin mind, The mind of viper's race. She makes thee seek, yet fear to find To find, but not enjoy: In many frowns some gliding smiles She yields to more annoy. She woos thee to come near her fire, Yet doth she draw it from thee; Far off she makes thy heart to fry, And yet to freeze within thee. She letteth fall some luring baits Too sweet, too sour, to every taste LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Soft souls she binds in tender twist, Her watery eyes have burning force; Her floods and flames conspire: Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, And sighs do blow her fire. May never was the month of love, Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives, With soothing words enthralled souls Her little sweet hath many sours, LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Like winter rose and summer ice, Fair first, in fine unseemly. Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits She yieldeth rest without repose, Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit, Her diet is of such delights As please till they be past; Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath, Remorse rings her awake; Death calls her up, Shame drives her out, Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain. D ROBERT SOUTHWELL. |