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But let her drink, and spare not, Untill my heart be dry;

And let Love laugh, I care not;

My hope is, I shall die!

And death shall only tell

My froward fortune's fashion,

That nearest unto hell

Was found the lover's passion.

A SOLEMN CONCEIT.

DOTH Love live in Beauty's eyes? Why, then, are they so unloving? Patience in her passion proving

There his sorrow chiefly lies.

Lives belief in lovers' hearts?

Why, then, are they unbelieving? Hourly so the spirit grieving With a thousand jealous smarts.

Is there pleasure in love's passion? Why, then, is it so unpleasing, Heart and spirit both diseasing, Where the wits are out of fashion?

No Love sees in Beauty's eyes

He hath only lost his seeing,
Where, in Sorrow's only being
All his comfort wholly dies:

Fain within the heart of love,
Fearful of the thing it hath,

Treading of a trembling path,
Doth but jealousy approve.

In Love's passion, then, what pleasure,
Which is but a lunacy,

Where grief, fear, and jealousy,
Plague the senses out of measure?

Farewell, then, unkindly fancy,
In thy courses all too cruel :
Woe the price of such a jewel
As turns reason to a frenzy!

ANONYMOUS.

Printed in the British Bibliographer, from a MS. of the time of Queen Elizabeth.

OF LINGERINGE LOVE.

IN lingeringe love mislikinge growes,
Wherby our fancies ebbs and flowes;
We love to day, and hate to morne,
And dayly when we list to scorne.

Take heed, therefore,

If she mislike, then love no more:
Quick speed makes waste;

Love is not gotten in such haste.

The suit is colde that soone is done;
The fort is feeble, eas'ly wonne :

The hawk that soon comes by her prey,
May take a toy and soar away.

Mark what means this;

Some thinke to hit, and yet they miss :

First creepe, then goe;

Me thinke our love is handled soe.

For lacke of bellowes the fire goes out; Some say the nighest way is about: Few things are had without some suit; The tree at first will bear no fruit.

Serve long, hope well,

Loe here is all that I can tell :

Time tries out troth,

And troth is liked wherere it go'th.

Some thinke all theirs that they do seeke;

Some wantons woo but for a weeke;

Some woo to shew their subtle wits,

Such palfreys play upon their bits.
Fine heads, God knows,

That plucke a nettle for a rose !

They meet their match,

And fare the worse because they snatch.

F

We silly women can not rest
For men that love to woo in jest ;
Some lay their baite in ev'ry nooke,
And ev'ry fish doth spie their hooke.
Ill ware, good cheape *,

Which makes us looke before we leape;

Craft can cloke much;

God save all simple souls from such!

Though lingeringe love be lost some while,

Yet lingeringe lovers laugh and smile;
Who will not linger for a day,

To banish hope, and hop away?

Love must be plied;

Who thinkes to sayle must wait the tide.

Thus ends his dance:

God send all lingerers happie chance!

SAMUEL DANIEL,

Born 1562, died 1619.

SONNET.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read

Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have a time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while.

* Bargain.

And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears,

Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,

And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; Pity and smiles do best become the fair;

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one!

AN ODE.

Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another,

In the fall of silver showers;

Whilst the Earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom deck'd with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven

With bright ray warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers, quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.

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