She is the Rose, the glorie of the day,
And mine the Primrose in the lowly shade:
Mine, ah! not mine; amisse I mine did say:
Not mine, but His, which mine awhile her made;
Mine to be His, with him to live for ay.
O that so faire a flower so soone should fade,
And through untimely tempest fall away!
She fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde,
And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kinde.
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;
She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
From Sappho and Phao, 1584-1632
The song in making of the arrows
Vulcan My shag-hair Cyclops, come let's ply
Our Lemnian hammers lustily.
By my wife's sparrows
I swear these arrows
Shall singing fly
Through many a wanton's eye.
These headed are with golden blisses,
These silver ones feather'd with kisses;
But this of lead
Strikes a clown dead,
When in a dance
He falls in a trance,
To see his black-brow lass not buss him,
And then whines out for death to untruss him.
So, so! our work being done, let's play;
Holiday, boys! cry holiday!
From Alexander and Campaspe, 1584-1632
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won; and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
From Midas, 1592—1632
A song of Daphne to the lute
My Daphne's hair is twisted gold,
Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces;
On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry.
Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears.
Fond am I thus to sing her praise;
These glories now are turned to bays.
From Gallathea, 1592-1632
O yes! O yes! If any maid
Whom leering Cupid has betrayed
To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn,
And would in madness now see torn
The boy in pieces, let her come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.
O yes! O yes! Has any lost
A heart which many a sigh hath cost?
Is any cozened of a tear
Which as a pearl disdain does wear ?
Here stands the thief; let her but come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.
Is any one undone by fire,
And turned to ashes through desire?
Did ever any lady weep,
Being cheated of her golden sleep,
Stolen by sick thoughts? The pirate's found,
And in her tears he shall be drown'd.
Read his indictment, let him hear
What he's to trust to; Boy, give ear!
Sing to Apollo, god of day,
Whose golden beams with morning play,
And make her eyes so brightly shine,
Aurora's face is called divine.
Sing to Phoebus and that throne
Of diamonds which he sits upon.
Iö, paeans let us sing
To Physic's and to Poesy's king!
Crown all his altars with bright fire,
Laurels bind about his lyre,
A Daphnean coronet for his head,
The Muses dance about his bed.
When on his ravishing lute he plays,
Strew his temple round with bays.
Io, paeans let us sing
To the glittering Delian king!
From Two Italian Gentlemen, 1584
I serve a mistress whiter than the snow,
Straighter than cedar, brighter than the glass,
Finer in trip and swifter than the roe,
More pleasant than the field of flow'ring grass;
More gladsome to my withering joys that fade
Than winter's sun or summer's cooling shade.
Sweeter than swelling grape of ripest wine,
Softer than feathers of the fairest swan,
Smoother than jet, more stately than the pine,
Fresher than poplar, smaller than my span;
Clearer than beauty's fiery pointed beam,
Or icy crust of crystal's frozen stream.
Yet is she curster than the bear by kind,
And harder hearted than the aged oak,
More glib than oil, more fickle than the wind,
Stiffer than steel no sooner bent, but broke.
Lo thus my service is a lasting sore;
Yet will I serve; although I die therefore.
From The Death of Robert Earl of Huntingdon, 1601
Weep! weep! ye woodmen, wail,
Your hands with sorrow wring!
Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.
Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross;
Now cast on flowers fresh and green.
And as they fall, shed tears and say
Wella, well-a-day! wella, well-a-day!
Thus cast ye flowers and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.
From Astrophel and Stella, 1591-1598
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due :
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step of sweetness planteth?
Who else for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which loosest fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due:
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
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