The Golden Treasury. Various

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       From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

      For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings

       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

      W. Shakespeare

XVII

      THE UNCHANGEABLE

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      O never say that I was false of heart,

       Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:

       As easy might I from myself depart

       As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;

      That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

       Like him that travels, I return again,

       Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

       So that myself bring water for my stain.

      Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

       All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

       That it could so preposterously be stain'd

       To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:

      For nothing this wide universe I call,

       Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.

      W. Shakespeare

XVIII

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      To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,

       For as you were when first your eye I eyed

       Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

       Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;

      Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd

       In process of the seasons have I seen,

       Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

       Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

      Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,

       Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

       So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:

      For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,—

       Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

      W. Shakespeare

XIX

      ROSALINE

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      Like to the clear in highest sphere

       Where all imperial glory shines,

       Of selfsame colour is her hair

       Whether unfolded, or in twines:

       Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

       Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

       Resembling heaven by every wink;

       The Gods do fear whenas they glow,

       And I do tremble when I think

       Heigh ho, would she were mine!

      Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

       That beautifies Aurora's face,

       Or like the silver crimson shroud

       That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;

       Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

       Her lips are like two budded roses

       Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,

       Within which bounds she balm encloses

       Apt to entice a deity:

       Heigh ho, would she were mine!

      Her neck is like a stately tower

       Where Love himself imprison'd lies,

       To watch for glances every hour

       From her divine and sacred eyes:

       Heigh ho, for Rosaline!

       Her paps are centres of delight,

       Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,

       Where Nature moulds the dew of light

       To feed perfection with the same:

       Heigh ho, would she were mine!

      

      With orient pearl, with ruby red,

       With marble white, with sapphire blue

       Her body every way is fed,

       Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:

       Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

       Nature herself her shape admires;

       The Gods are wounded in her sight;

       And Love forsakes his heavenly fires

       And at her eyes his brand doth light:

       Heigh ho, would she were mine!

      Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan

       The absence of fair Rosaline,

       Since for a fair there's fairer none,

       Nor for her virtues so divine:

       Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;

       Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

      T. Lodge

XX

      COLIN

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