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And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart,
Never for to depart,
Neither for pain nor smart?
And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!


And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas! thy cruelty !
And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!

Sir Thomas Wyatt.


c. 1542.


FORGET not yet the tried intent
Of such a troth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!


Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!


Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways.
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!

I 2

Rosalind's Madrigal
Forget not! O, forget not this !-
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss-
Forget not yet!


Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved :

Forget not this!
C. 1542.

Sir Thomas Wyatt.



From Rosalynde

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 ve!
Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence;
And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence.
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;
Then 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! 1590.

Thomas Lodge.




From Rosalynde
LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines :
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Rosalind's Description
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!


Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phæbus' smiling looks doth grace;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!


Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes :

Heigh ho, for Rosaline !
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!


With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue
Her body every way is fed;
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view :
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !


Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for her fair there 's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were

Thomas Lodge.




From Campaspe

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CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses,-Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows,-
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin,-
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me? 1584.

John Lyly.


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