THOMAS LODGE (1558?–1625) ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL Love in my bosom like a bee Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he, And makes his pillow of my knee, Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing; Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear, No cause deferred, no vain-spent jour- Who, scorched with excessive heat, such Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 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;4 Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: Nor no witchcraft charm thee! From THE TEMPEST Come unto these yellow sands, Curtsied when you have, and kissed 5 5 ΙΟ 15 20 |