GEORGE GASCOIGNE. A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER. I Laugh sometimes with little lust; So jest I oft, and feel no joye; She sends sweet notes from out her breast: How joys approach when sorrows shrink, And as fair Philomene again Can watch and sing when others sleep, And taketh pleasure in her pain, To wray the woe that makes her weep: So sing I now, for to bewray The loathsome life I lead alway. The which to thee, dear wench, I write, I cannot live; it will not be, I die to think to part from thee. THE DOLE OF DESPAIR, Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to I former Promises. Must alledge, and thou canst tell How faithfully I vow'd to serve : And how thou seem'dst to like me well; And how thou saidst I did deserve To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King, And how much more I list not sing. And canst thou now, thou cruel one, For hault disdain, you might be she; And in reward of thy desert, I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make, Since thou Orlando dost forsake. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. SONG. BLOW, blow thou Winter-wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: SONNET. N a day, (alack the day!) ΟΝ Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom, passing fair, Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;- That I am forsworn for thee; Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiop were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. SONG OF FAIRIES. OW the hungry lion roars, Now And the wolf behowls the moon, That the graves, all gaping wide, By the triple Hecat's team, WINTER, A SONG. WHEN icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail ; A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. And Marian's nose looks red and raw; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. A SONG ON FANCY. TELL me, where is fancy bred, Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes; Let us all ring Fancy's knell: ARIEL'S SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I; In a cowslip's bell I lie, There I couch when owls do cry; On the bat's back I do fly, After sun-set merrily; Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. FEAR DIRGE. no more the heat o' th' sun, Thou thy worldly task hast done, |