ON ISABELLA. WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR. WHENCE Comes my love, O heart disclose! The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Why thus, my love, so kindly speak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek, Yet not a heart to save my pain? O Venus! take thy gifts again, Make nought so fair to cause our moan, HARRINGTON, 1560. THE BIRTH OF DESIRE. WHEN Wert thou born, Desire? By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot? "By good Conceit, men say." Tell me who was thy nurse? "Fresh Youth in sugared joy." What was thy meat and daily food? "Sore sighs and great annoy." What hadst thou, then, to drink? "Unfeigned lovers' tears." What cradle were you rocked in? "In Hope devoid of fears." What brought you, then, asleep? Doth company displease? "It doth in many a one." Where would Desire, then, chuse to be? "He likes to be alone." What feedeth most your sight? "To gaze on favour still." Who find you most to be your foe? Will ever age or death Bring you unto decay? 66 No, no; Desire both lives and dies Ten thousand times a day." VERE, 1590. WHERE DOST THOU LOITER, SPRING? WHERE dost thou loiter, spring, Whilst it behoveth Thee to cease wandering Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth? Come with thy melting skies, Like her cheek blushing; Come with thy dewy eyes, Where founts are gushing; Come where the wild bee hies, Lead her where, by the brook, Or, with a timid look, Through its leaves peepeth. Lead her where, on the spray, First birds their roundelay For my lady sing, But keep, where'er she stray, True love blossoming. HOFFMAN. TO A LOVER. FAINT amorist! what, dost thou think A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Th' Elysian Fields, that dar'st not venture In Charon's barge? A lover's mind He that loves, and fears to try, Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it Is she sick? why then be sure, Doth she cross thy suit with—' No?" In question? nay, she loves thee then, And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hitt'st her not. He that, after ten denials, Dares attempt no further trials, The dainties of his chaste desire. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. |