Rosalind's Madrigal Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: 477 Only bend thy knee to me, ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL From "Rosalind" Love in my bosom like a bee Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And yet he robs me of my rest: Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin. What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee; Spare not, but play thee! Thomas Lodge [1558?-1625] SONG From "Hymen's Triumph " LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries→→ Heigh ho! Samuel Daniel (1562–1619] Venus Runaway LOVE'S PERJURIES From "Love's Labor's Lost" ON a day, alack the day! Love, whose month is ever May, Through the velvet leaves the wind, That I am forsworn for thee: Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. 479: William Shakespeare [1564-1616] But who brings him to his mother, He hath marks about him plenty: And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, At his sight, the sun hath turned, Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He doth bear a golden bow, Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood: Naught but wounds his hands doth season, And he hates none like to Reason. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. What is Love?. All his practice is deceit; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears.. Idle minutes are his reign; Then, the straggler makes his gain To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, 481 Tell me more, are women true? Yes, some are, and some as you. Since you men first taught to change. Be in both, All shall love, to love anew. |