Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or, that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. Now let us rehearse that famous old song of MARLOWE, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentleman, Izaac Walton : Here is the opening passage of a poem by DANIEL, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day: : He that of such a height hath built his mind, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame He also wrote the following sprightly song: Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that most with cutting, grows; Most barren, with best using: 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— Among favorite love-lyrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal, by LODGE. Here it is : 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 sleep, there percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee, The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he turns 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; If he gainsay me? |