The Golden Treasury. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ done to thee,

       Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

      T. Campion

LX

      SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD

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      Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,

       When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

       Mother's wag, pretty boy,

       Father's sorrow, father's joy;

       When thy father first did see

       Such a boy by him and me,

       He was glad, I was woe,

       Fortune changed made him so,

       When he left his pretty boy

       Last his sorrow, first his joy.

      Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,

       When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

       Streaming tears that never stint,

       Like pearl drops from a flint,

       Fell by course from his eyes,

       That one another's place supplies;

       Thus he grieved in every part,

       Tears of blood fell from his heart,

       When he left his pretty boy,

       Father's sorrow, father's joy.

      

      Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,

       When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

       The wanton smiled, father wept,

       Mother cried, baby leapt;

       More he crow'd, more we cried,

       Nature could not sorrow hide:

       He must go, he must kiss

       Child and mother, baby bless,

       For he left his pretty boy,

       Father's sorrow, father's joy.

       Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,

       When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

      R. Greene

LXI

      A LAMENT

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      My thoughts hold mortal strife;

       I do detest my life,

       And with lamenting cries

       Peace to my soul to bring

       Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:

       —But he, grim grinning King,

       Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,

       Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,

       Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

      W. Drummond

LXII

      DIRGE OF LOVE

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      Come away, come away, Death,

       And in sad cypres let me be laid;

       Fly away, fly away, breath;

       I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

       My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.

      Not a flower, not a flower sweet

       On my black coffin let there be strown;

       Not a friend, not a friend greet

       My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

       A thousand thousand sighs to save,

       Lay me, O where

       Sad true lover never find my grave,

       To weep there.

      W. Shakespeare

LXIII

      TO HIS LUTE

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      My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow

       With thy green mother in some shady grove,

       When immelodious winds but made thee move,

       And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

      Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,

       Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

       Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,

       What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

      Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

       But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;

       Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;

       For which be silent as in woods before:

      Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,

       Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.

      W. Drummond

LXIV

      FIDELE

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      Fear no more the heat o' the sun

       Nor the furious СКАЧАТЬ