TO LUCASTA.

And she is "parting: " her vacant breast

But coldly welcomes "the coming guest;"

But they finished their work ere they went their way,

A coffin grim and a cradle gay.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
To warre and armes I flee.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.

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

There will I make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies ;

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

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.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,

To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,

When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;

And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs:
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

TO THE UNSATISFIED.

WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far-off, unattained and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still: Leaf and flower, and laden bec, are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw;
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world, through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,

Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.