FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON.
EFORE our lady came on earth,
Little there was of joy or mirth; About the borders of the sea The sea-folk wandered heavily; About the wintry river-side The weary fishers would abide.
Alone within the weaving-room The girls would sit before the loom, And sing no song, and play no play; Alone from dawn to hot mid-day, From mid-day unto evening, The men afield would work, nor sing, 'Mid weary thoughts of men and God, Before thy feet the wet ways trod.
Unkissed, the merchant bore his care; Unkissed, the knight went out to war; Unkissed, the mariner came home; Unkissed, the minstrel-men did roam.
Or in the stream the maids would stare, Nor know why they were made so fair; Their yellow locks, their bosoms white, Their limbs well wrought for all delight, Seemed foolish things that waited death, As hopeless as the flowers beneath The weariness of unkissed feet : No life was bitter then, nor sweet.
Therefore, O Venus, well may we Praise the green ridges of the sea, O'er which, upon a happy day, Thou cam'st to take our shame away. Well may we praise the curdling foam Amidst the which thy feet did bloom, Flowers of the Gods; the yellow sand They kissed atwixt the sea and land; The bee-beset, ripe-seeded grass,
Through which thy fine limbs first did pass;
The purple-dusted butterfly,
First blown against thy quivering thigh; The first red rose that touched thy side, And over-blown and fainting died; The flickering of the orange shade, Where first in sleep thy limbs were laid; The happy day's sweet life and death, Whose air first caught thy balmy breath- Yea, all these things well praised may be; But with what words shall we praise thee- O Venus, O thou Love alive,
Born to give peace to souls that strive?
THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION.
SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee tell.
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell
That tolls all unto heaven or hell; And this is love, as I heard tell.
Yet what is love? I prithee say.- It is a work on holiday; It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods, in fresh array, Hear ten months after of the play; And this is love, as I hear say.
Yet what is love? Good shepherd, sain.-
It is a sunshine mixed with rain;
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain;
The lass saith no, and would full fain;
And this is love, as I hear sain.
Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?—
It is a yea, it is a nay;
A pretty kind of sporting fray;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then, nymphs, take 'vantage while ye may;
And this is love, as I hear say.
Yet, what is love? Good shepherd, show.- A thing that creeps; it cannot go ; A prize that passeth to and fro; A thing for one, a thing for moe; And he that proves shall find it so ; And, shepherd, this is love, I trow.
LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing;
A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
But if she whom love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind;
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