ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,

For your offence ;

VIRTUE.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy,
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes-I like of thee.

O Cupid, so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

THOMAS Lodge.

VIRTUE.

SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

SONG.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

SONG.

THE world goes up, and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,

Sweet wife,

No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;

Till the heart which at even was weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,

Sweet wife,

To its work in the morning gay.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae!
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!

I leaned my back unto an aik;
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak :
Sae my true love did lightly me!

O waly, waly, but love be bonny
A little time, while it is new;

But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew.

O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?

For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed:

The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;

Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Sin' my true love has forsaken me.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I'm weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we cam in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinned it with a silver pin.

O, O, if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I mysel' were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me!

ANONYMOUS.