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With more despairing sorts of madrigals,
Than I, whom wanton Love hath with his gad
Pricked to the court of deep and restless thoughts.
The frolic youngsters Bacchus' liquor mads,
Run not about the wood of Thessaly
With more enchanted fits of lunacy,
Than I, whom Love, whom sweet and bitter Love
Fires, infects with sundry passions;
Now lorn with liking overmuch my love,
Frozen with fearing if I step too far,
Fired with gazing at such glimmering stars,
As stealing light from Phoebus' brightest rays,
Sparkle and set a flame within


breast. Rest, restless Love, fond baby be content; Child, hold thy darts within thy quiver close; And, if thou wilt be roving with thy bow, Aim at those hearts that may attend on love: Let country swains, and silly swads* be still; To court, young wag, and wanton there thy fill!


The curtain of the night is overspread;
The silent mistress of the lowest sphere
Puts on her sable-coloured veil, and lours.
Nor star, nor milk-white circle of the sky
Appears, where Discontent doth hold her lodge.
She sits shrined in a canopy of clouds,
Whose massy darkness mazeth every sense.
Wan are her looks, her cheeks of azure hue;
Her hairs as Gorgon's foul retorting snakes;
Envy the glass wherein the hag doth gaze;
Restless the clock that chimes her fast asleep;

* An empty-headed foolish fellowfrom a peascod shell, called, in some country dialects, a swad.


Disquiet thoughts the minutes of her watch.
Forth from her cave the fiend full oft doth fly:
To kings she goes, and troubles them with crowns,
Setting those high aspiring brands on fire,
That flame from earth unto the seat of Jove;
To such as Midas, men that doat on wealth,
And rent the bowels of the middle earth
For coin, who gape as did fair Danae
For showers of gold, there Discontent in black
Throws forth the vials of her restless cares;
To such as sit at Paphos for relief,
And offer Venus many

solemn vows;
To such as Hymen in his saffron robe
Hath knit a Gordian knot of passions;
To these, to all, parting the gloomy air,
Black Discontent doth make her bad repair.

IN N Cyprus sat fair Venus by a fount,

Wanton Adonis toying on her knee:
She kissed the wag, her darling of account;

The boy 'gan blush, which when his lover see, She smiled, and told him love might challenge debt, And he was young, and might be wanton yet. The boy waxed bold, fired by fond desire,

That woo he could and court her with conceit: Reason spied this, and sought to quench the fire

With cold disdain; but wily Adon straight Cheered

up the flame, and said, 'Good sir, what let? I am but young, and may be wanton yet.' Reason replied, that beauty was a bane

To such as feed their fancy with fond love, That when sweet youth with lust is overta’en,

It rues in age: this could not Adon move, For Venus taught him still this rest to set, That he was young, and might be wanton yet.

Where Venus strikes with beauty to the quick,

It little 'vails sage Reason to reply;
Few are the cares for such as are love-sick,

But love: then, though I wanton it awry,
And play the wag, from Adon this I get,
I am but young, and may be wanton yet.




HE Siren Venus nourished in her lap

Fair Adon, swearing whiles he was a youth
He might be wanton: note his after-hap,

The guerdon that such lawless lust ensu'th;
So long he followed flattering Venus' lore,
Till, seely lad, he perished by a boar.
Mars in his youth did court this lusty dame,

He won her love; what might his fancy let
He was but young? at last, unto his shame,

Vulcan entrapped them slily in a net,
And called the Gods to witness as a truth,
A lecher's fault was not excused by youth.
If crooked age accounteth youth his spring,

The spring, the fairest season of the year,
Enriched with flowers, and sweets, and many a thing,

That fair and gorgeous to the eyes appear; It fits that youth, the spring of man, should be Riched with such flowers as virtue yieldeth thee.



my love, for April in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place,

But cold December dwelleth in her heart: Blest be the months, that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my


Like Phæbus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes ;

As air perfumed with amber is her breath;
Like swelling waves, her lovely teats do rise;

As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death :
Ah me, poor man, that on the earth do live,
When unkind earth death and despair doth give!

sits mercy seated in her face; Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint Her eyes shine favour, courtesy, and grace;

But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint ! Therefore


harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.

PHILLIS kept sheep along the western plains,

And Coridon did feed his flocks hard by:
This shepherd was the flower of all the swains

That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly,
And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass
In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.
A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire,

Was lovely Phillis, Coridon swore so;
Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire,

He left his lambs, and he began to woo;
He looked, he sighed, he courted with a kiss,
No better could the silly swad than this.
He little knew to paint a tale of love,

Shepherds can fancy, but they cannot say:
Phillis 'gan smile, and wily thought to prove

What uncouth grief poor Coridon did pay; She asked him how his flocks or he did fare, Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care. The shepherd blushed when Phillis questioned so,

And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks; s 'Tis love, fair Phillis, breedeth all this woe,

My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks,

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Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire;
Fair Phillis kindleth Coridon's desire.'
Can shepherds love!' said Phillis to the swain;

Such saints as Phillis,’ Coridon replied;
*Men when they lust can many fancies feign,'

Said Phillis; this not Coridon denied, That lust had lies, but love,' quoth he,' says truth; Thy shepherd loves,—then, Phillis, what ensu'th ?' Phillis was won, she blushed and hung the head;

The swain stepped to, and cheered her with a kiss; With faith, with troth, they struck the matter dead;

So usèd they when men thought not amiss :
This love begun and ended both in one;
Phillis was loved, and she liked Coridon.



AH, were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,

Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land,

Under wide heavens, but yet [I know] not such.

* Pandosto. The Triumph of Time. Wherein is discovered by a pleasant history, that although by the means of sinister fortune truth may be concealed, yet by time, in spite of fortune, it is most manifestly revealed. Pleasant for age to avoid drowsy thoughts, profitable for youth to eschew other wanton pastimes, and bringing to both a desired content. Temporis filia veritas. By Robert Greene, Master of Arts in Cambridge. Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. 1588.

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