The Golden Treasury. Various

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      Turn back, you wanton flyer,

       And answer my desire

       With mutual greeting.

       Yet bend a little nearer,—

       True beauty still shines clearer

       In closer meeting!

       Hearts with hearts delighted

       Should strive to be united,

       Each other's arms with arms enchaining,—

       Hearts with a thought,

       Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.

      What harvest half so sweet is

       As still to reap the kisses

       Grown ripe in sowing?

       And straight to be receiver

       Of that which thou art giver,

       Rich in bestowing?

       There is no strict observing

       Of times' or seasons' swerving,

       There is ever one fresh spring abiding;—

       Then what we sow with our lips

       Let us reap, love's gains dividing.

      T. Campion

XXVI

      ADVICE TO A GIRL

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      Never love unless you can

       Bear with all the faults of man!

       Men sometimes will jealous be

       Though but little cause they see,

       And hang the head as discontent,

       And speak what straight they will repent.

      

      Men, that but one Saint adore,

       Make a show of love to more;

       Beauty must be scorn'd in none,

       Though but truly served in one:

       For what is courtship but disguise?

       True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

      Men, when their affairs require,

       Must awhile themselves retire;

       Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,

       And not ever sit and talk:—

       If these and such-like you can bear,

       Then like, and love, and never fear!

      T. Campion

XXVII

      LOVE'S PERJURIES

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      On a day, alack the day!

       Love, whose month is ever May,

       Spied a blossom passing fair

       Playing in the wanton air:

       Through the velvet leaves the wind,

       All unseen, 'gan passage find;

       That the lover, sick to death,

       Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

       Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

       Air, would I might triumph so!

       But, alack, my hand is sworn

       Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

       Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;

       Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

       Do not call it sin in me

       That I am forsworn for thee:

       Thou for whom Jove would swear

       Juno but an Ethiope were,

       And deny himself for Jove,

       Turning mortal for thy love.

      W. Shakespeare

XXVIII

      A SUPPLICATION

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      Forget not yet the tried intent

       Of such a truth as I have meant;

       My great travail so gladly spent,

       Forget not yet!

      Forget not yet when first began

       The weary life ye know, since whan

       The suit, the service none tell can;

       Forget not yet!

      Forget not yet the great assays,

       The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,

       The painful patience in delays,

       Forget not yet!

      Forget not! O, forget not this,

       How long ago hath been, and is

       The mind that never meant amiss—

       Forget not yet!

      Forget not then thine own approved

       The which so long hath thee so loved,

       Whose steadfast faith yet never moved—

       Forget not this!

      Sir T. Wyat

XXIX

      TO AURORA

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