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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,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.
Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said
His death-bed peacock's folly,
His winding-sheet is shame,
Good Lord deliver us.
Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read,
And wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart;
From so ungrateful fancy,
Alas! I lie, rage has this error bred—
Love is not dead but sleepeth
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,
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
THE SILENT LOVER.
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!
With thinking that he feels no smart,
Since if my plaints serve not to approve
For, knowing that I sue to serve
I rather choose to want relief
Thus those desires that aim too high
When reason cannot make them die,
Yet, when discretion doth bereave
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!
WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH.
VEN 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!
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
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
There will I make thee beds of roses
cap of flowers, and a kirtle
A gown made of the finest wool,
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy silver dishes for thy meat