She burnt with love, as ftraw with fire flameth,
She burnt out love, as foon as ftraw out burneth;
She fram❜d the love, and yet the foil'd the framing,
She bade love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
If mufick and fweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the fifter and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'ft the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenfer to me, whofe deep conceit is fuch,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'ft to hear the sweet melodious found,
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of mufick, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
Whenas himself to finging he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.
Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love,
Paler for forrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's fake, a youngfter proud and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;
She filly queen, with more than love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pafs thofe grounds;
Once, quoth she, did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!
See in my thigh, quoth fhe, here was the fore:
She showed hers; he faw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
Sweet rofe, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, foon faded,
Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too foon by death's sharp fting!
Like a green plumb that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before the fall fhould be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why? thou left'ft me nothing in thy Will.
And yet thou left'ft me more than I did crave;
For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee;
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
Fair Venus with Adonis fitting by her,
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, fhe fell to him.
Even thus, quoth fhe, the warlike god embrac'd me; And then she clip'd Adonis in her arms:
Even thus, quoth fhe, the warlike god unlac'd me,
As if the boy should use like loving charms.
Even thus, quoth fhe, he seized on my lips,
And with her lips on his did act the seizure;
And as fhe fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.
Ah! that I had my lady at this bay,
To kifs and clip me till I run away!
Crabbed age and youth
Cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care:
Youth like fummer morn,
Age like winter weather ;
Youth like fummer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is 'fhort,
Youth is nimble, age is lame:
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young:
Age, I do defy thee;
O fweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou ftay'ft too long.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A fhining glofs, that fadeth fuddenly;
A flower that dies, when firft it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glafs, that's broken presently:
A doubtful good, a glofs, a glass, a flower,
Loft, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods loft are seld or never found,
As faded glofs no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead, lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's loft,
In spite of phyfick, painting, pain, and cost.
Good night, good reft. Ah! neither be
She bade good night, that kept my reft away;
And daft me to a cabbin hang'd with care,
To defcant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewel, quoth fhe, and come again to-morrow;
Farewel I could not, for I fupp'd with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In fcorn or friendship, nill I conftrue whether:
May be, the joy'd to jeft at my exíle,
May be, again to make me wander thither:
Wander, a word for fhadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rife
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring truft the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela fits and fings, I fit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark ;
For fhe doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark difmal-dreaming night:
The night fo pack'd, I poft unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished fight;
Sorrow chang'd to folace, folace mix'd with forrow;
For why? fhe figh'd, and bade me come to-morrow,
Were I with her, the night would poft too foon;
But now are minutes added to the hours
To fpite me now, each minute feems an hour;
Yet not for me, fhine fun to fuccour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow;
Short, Night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
It was a lordling's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her mafter as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the faireft that eye could fee,
Her fancy fell a turning.
Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight,
To leave the mafter loveless, or kill the gallant knight:
To put in practice either, alas it was a spite
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