Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music playes if so I sing,
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Ah, wanton, will ye?

Else I with roses every day

Will whip ye 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 sinne,

I'll count your power not worth a pinne,
Alas! what hereby shall I winne,
If he gain-say me?

What if I beate the wanton boy

With many a rod ?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a God.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bowre my bosome be;

Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O, Cupid, so thou pity me!
Spare not, but play thee.

T. LODGE.

XLI

DAMELUS SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA

DIAPHENIA, like the daffa-down-dilly,
White as the sunne, faire as the lilly,
Heigh ho, how I doe love thee!

I doe love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams,

How blest were I if thou would'st prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweetes all sweetes encloses,
Faire sweet how I doe love thee!

I doe love thee as each flower

Loves the sunne's life-giving power,

For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed,
When all thy praises are expressed,

Deare joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds doe love the Spring,
Or the bees their careful king,

Then in requite, sweet virgin love me.

H. CONSTABLE.

XLII

TO HIS COY LOVE

I PRAY thee, leave; love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me ;
I but in vaine that saint adore

That can, but will not save me.
These poore halfe kisses kill me quite ;

Was ever man thus served?

Amidst an ocean of delight,

For pleasure to be sterved.

Show me no more those snowie breasts,
With azure riverets branched,
Where, whilst mine eye with plentie feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanched.
O Tantalus! thy paines ne'er tell;
By me thou art prevented:
'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in hell,
But thus in heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those deare armes,
Nor thy life's comfort call me;
O! these are but too powerful charmes,
And doe but more enthral me.

But see how patient I am growne,

In all this coile about thee;
Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,
I cannot live without thee.

M. DRAYTON.

XLIII

WHAT IS LOVE?

TELL me, dearest, what is love?

'Tis a lightning from above,

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,

'Tis a boy they call Desire.

'Tis a grave,
Gapes to have

Those poor fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true?

Yes, some are, and some as you.
Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change.
And till troth

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?
Yes, and sicken sore, but live,
And be wise, and delay,

When you men are as wise as they.

Then I see,

Faith will be,

Never till they both believe.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

XLIV

LIFE'S PAGEANT

WHETHER men do laugh or weepe,

Whether they do wake or sleepe,

Whether they die young or olde,
Whether they feel heat or colde,
There is underneath the sunne
Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jeste,
None are worst and none are beste;
Grief and joye and hope and feare,
Play their pageants everywhere;
Vaine opinion all doth sway,
And the worlde is but a play.

Powers above in cloudes do sit,
Mocking our poor apish wit,
That so lamely, with such state
Their high glory imitate :
No ill can be felt but paine,

And that happy men disdaine.

T. CAMPION.