The Golden Treasury | Page 9

came a third, your love to win,
And we
were out and he was in.
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,

Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost
for new love.
Sure you have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon
removéd,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best
belovéd:
For all your love was past and done
Two days before it
was begun:--
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love,
untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
ANON.
41. A RENUNCIATION.
If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm,
not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By
service long to purchase their good will;
But when I see how frail
those creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.
To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from
Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they
range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
Who would not
scorn and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, which

way they list?
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when
nothing else can please,
And train them to our lure with subtle oath,

Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
And then we say
when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, O what a fool was I!
E. VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.
42.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's
ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green
holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As
benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so
sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the
green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
W. SHAKESPEARE.
43. MADRIGAL.
My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with
lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which
here doth monarchise:
--But he, grim grinning King,
Who caitiffs
scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having deck'd with beauty's
rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
W. DRUMMOND.

44. DIRGE OF LOVE.
Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My
shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be
strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my
bones shall thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
W. SHAKESPEARE.
45. FIDELE.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages:
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.
W. SHAKESPEARE.
46. A SEA DIRGE.
Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into
something rich and strange;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark!
now I hear them,--
Ding, dong, Bell.
W. SHAKESPEARE.
47. A LAND DIRGE.
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves
they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless
bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the
field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him
warm
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep
the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them
up again.
J. WEBSTER.
48. POST MORTEM.
If Thou survive my well-contented day
When that churl Death my
bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more

re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover:
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be
outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their
rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
"Had my friend's muse
grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had
brought,
To march in ranks of better