The Home Book of Verse, vol 2 | Page 4

fishes in the seas: Not
all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in
his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play
And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy
knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of
all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved
die, Losing their virginity! Like unto a summer shade, But now born,
and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in
delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! All
the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys'
swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every
vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as
proud, To carry up my train have bowed, And a world of ladies send
me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy
wooing shall thy winning be.
Giles Fletcher [1549?-1611]

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL From "Rosalind"
Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings
he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his
nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleeps, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his
pillow of my knee The livelong night. 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: Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when
you long to play, For your offence. 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. -
Alas! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with
annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee; Then let thy
bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; O Cupid, so
thou pity me, 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, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we
enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries - Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath
made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we
enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries - Heigh ho!
Samuel Daniel [1562-1619]
LOVE'S PERJURIES From "Love's Labor's Lost"
On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a
blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet
leaves the wind, All unseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to
death, Wished himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks
may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me 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.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

VENUS' RUNAWAY From "The Hue and Cry After Cupid"
Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked,
wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.
She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss, How or where herself would wish: But
who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another.
He hath marks about him plenty: You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot
like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
At his sight, the sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned; Hell
hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat: From the centre
to