XXVI.

LOVE'S SERENADE.

MY LADY SWEET, ARISE!

HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin,
My Lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare.

XXVII.

LOVE'S SERENADE.

AWAKE, AWAKE!

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes this window for the east,

And to implore your light he sings.
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star;
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.

Sir William Davenant.

XXVIII.

THE CALL TO LOVE.

COME THEN, BELOVÈD.

O PENSIVE, tender maid, downcast and shy,

Who turnest pale e'en at the name of love,
And with flushed face must pass the elm-tree by
Ashamed to hear the passionate grey dove
Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move,
Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day,
And with thy girdle put thy shame away.

What then, and shall white winter ne'er be done,
Because the glittering frosty morn is fair?
Because against the early-setting sun

Bright show the gilded boughs though waste and
bare?

Because the robin singeth free from care? Ah! these are the memories of a better day, When on earth's face the lips of summer lay.

Come then, beloved one, for such as thee

Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well,

Who hoard their moments of felicity,

As misers hoard the medals that they tell, Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell; "We hide our love to bless another day; The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say.

Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget

Amidst your outpoured love that you must die, Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors yet, And love to you should be eternity

How quick soever might the days go by :

Yes, ye are made immortal on the day

Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh.

Thou hearkenest, love? O make no semblance then
Thou art beloved, but as thy wont is

Turn thy grey eyes away from eyes of men,

With hands down-dropped, that tremble with thy

bliss,

With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss;

Call this eternity which is to-day,

Nor dream that this our love can pass away.

William Morris.

XXIX.

THE CALL TO LOVE.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber-studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be

Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe.

XXX.

THE CALL TO LOVE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All those in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.

What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain; that's only good

Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;

Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

XXXI.

THE TIME FOR LOVE.

'TIS NOT HEREAFTER.

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers' meeting-

Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure,
In delay there lies no plenty,-
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare.

XXXII.

THE TIME FOR LOVE.

WHY DELAY?

PHYLLIS! why should we delay
Pleasures shorter than the day?
Could we (which we never can !)
Stretch our lives beyond their span,