Sir Philip Sidney.

LOVE IS DEAD.

RING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread,

For Love is dead!

All Love is dead, infected

With plague of deep disdain,
Worth, or not worth, rejected,
And faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said

That Love is dead?
His death-bed peacock's folly,
His winding-sheet is shame,
His will, false seeming holy,
His sole executor blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read,

For Love is dead:

And

wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth,

Her eyes were once his dart.

From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Alas! I lie, rage has this error bred—
Love's not dead.

Love is not dead but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind,
Where she his counsel keepeth
Till one desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a frenzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

A DITTY.

Y

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his because in me it bides:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

PASSIO

ASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart!
The limit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion;

Since if my plaints serve not to approve
The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,
But com excess of duty :

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in thy affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,

When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that they should utter,
'Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity!

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

LINES

WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH.

EVEN such is Time, that takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust;

Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days!

Christopher Marlowe.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME

OME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.