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Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
After summer merrily.
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting de
lights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth
did make, Of journeys and great challenges of
knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's
sake; When thou hast told these honors done to
thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder
Hey nonny no!
Hey nonny no!
THOMAS CAMPION (1667-1620)
OF CORINNA'S SINGING
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 15 All that attempt, with eye or hand,
Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Which,” in his height of pride,
To the King sending; 1 raise.
? the French general.
Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham,
3 the command to send a ransom. 5 advance guard.
6 main host.
4 resolution. ? so that.
THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad
See the chariot at hand here of Love, The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by Wherein my lady rideth!
chance; Each that draws is a swan or a dove, Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And well the car Love guideth.
And think to ruin, where it seemed to As she goes, all hearts do duty
raise. Unto her beauty;
These are, as some infamous bawd or And enamored, do wish, so they might
whore But enjoy such a sight, Should praise a matron. What could hurt That they still were to run by her side,
her more? Through swords, through seas, whither she But thou art proof against them, and, inwould ride.
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. Do but look on her eyes, they do light I therefore will begin. Soul of the age,
All that Love's world compriseth! The applause, delight, the wonder of our Do but look on her hair, it is bright
stage, As Love's star when it riseth!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
by Than words that soothe her; Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 And from her arched brows such a grace A little further, to make thee a room:
Sheds itself through the face, Thou art a monument without a tomb, As alone there triumphs to the life
And art alive still while thy book doth All the gain, all the good, of the elements' live, strife.
And we have wits to read and praise to
give. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, That I not mix thee so my brain
Before rude hands have touched it? I mean with great, but disproportioned Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Muses;
26 Before the soil hath smutched it?
For if I thought my judgment were of Have you felt the wool o' the beaver?
years, Or swan's down ever? I should commit? thee surely with thy Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
peers, Or the nard' i' the fire? And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outOr have tasted the bag of the bee?
shine, O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
30 Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, less Greek, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE From thence to honor thee, I would not
seek To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy For names, but call forth thundering name,
Æschylus, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; Euripides, and Sophocles to us, While I confess thy writings to be such Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 As neither man nor muse can praise too To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, much.
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But on, these ways
Leave thee alone for the comparison Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; Of all that insolent 'Greece or haughty For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Rome Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes Sent forth, or since did from their ashes right;