The Golden Treasury. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ Fancy's knell;

       I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.

       —Ding, dong, bell.

      W. Shakespeare

LXX

      A DILEMMA

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      Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting

       Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,

       And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,

       My eyes present me with a double doubting:

       For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes

       Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.

      Anon.

LXXI

      ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL

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      Love in my bosom, like a bee,

       Doth suck his sweet;

       Now with his wings he plays with me,

       Now with his feet.

       Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

       His bed amidst my tender breast;

       My kisses are his daily feast,

       And yet he robs me of my rest:

       Ah! wanton, will ye?

      And if I sleep, then percheth he

       With pretty flight,

       And makes his pillow of my knee

       The livelong night.

       Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

       He music plays if so I sing;

       He lends me every lovely thing,

       Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:

       Whist, wanton, will ye?

      Else I with roses every day

       Will whip you hence,

       And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin; —Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me?

      What if I beat the wanton boy

       With many a rod?

       He will repay me with annoy,

       Because a god.

       Then sit thou safely on my knee,

       And let thy bower my bosom be;

       Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,

       O Cupid! so thou pity me,

       Spare not, but play thee!

      T. Lodge

LXXII

      CUPID AND CAMPASPE

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      Cupid and my Campaspe play'd

       At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

       He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

       His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

       Loses them too; then down he throws

       The coral of his lip, the rose

       Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

       With these, the crystal of his brow,

       And then the dimple on his chin;

       All these did my Campaspe win:

       And last he set her both his eyes—

       She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

       O Love! has she done this to thee?

       What shall, alas! become of me?

      J. Lylye

LXXIII

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      Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,

       With night we banish sorrow;

       Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

       To give my Love good-morrow!

       Wings from the wind to please her mind

       Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

       Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,

       To give my Love good-morrow;

       To give my Love good-morrow

       Notes from them both I'll borrow.

      Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,

       Sing, birds, in every furrow;

       And from each hill, let music shrill

       Give my fair Love good-morrow!

       Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

       Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!

       You pretty elves, amongst yourselves

       Sing my fair Love good-morrow;

       To give my Love good-morrow

       Sing, birds, in every furrow!

      T. Heywood

LXXIV

      PROTHALAMION

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      Calm was the day, and through the trembling air

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