"Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
Upon a rock, and underneath a hill,
Far from the town (where all is whist and still,
Save that the sea playing on yellow sand,
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
In silence of the night to visit us)
My turret stands, and there God knows I play
With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.
A dwarfish beldame bears me company,
That hops about the chamber where I lie,
And spends the night (that might be better spent)

Come, come, dear Night, Love's mart of kisses,
Sweet close of his ambitious line,
The fruitful summer of his blisses,
Love's glory doth in darkness shine.

O come, soft rest of cares, come Night!
Come naked virtue's only tire,
The reaped harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
Love calls to war;
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day's outfacing face.
And all thy crowned flames command

With that he stripped him to the ivory skin,
And crying, "Love, I come', leaped lively in.
Whereat the sapphire-visaged god grew proud,
And made his capering Triton sound aloud,
Imagining that Ganymede, displeased,
Had left the heavens; therefore on him he seized.
Leander strived; the waves about him wound,
And pulled him to the bottom, where the ground
Was strewed with pearl, and in low coral groves
Sweet singing mermaids sported with their loves
On heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure
To spurn in careless sort the shipwreck treasure:

Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts, decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed for storm's play!
II

Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed--
Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed--
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,--bloom frost bequeathed?
III

If Jove himself be subject unto love
And range the woods to find a mortal prey;
If Neptune from the seas himself remove,
And seek on sands with earthly wights to play:
Then may I love my peerless choice by right,
Who far excels each other mortal wight.
If Pluto could by love be drawn from hell,
To yield himself a silly virgin's thrall;
If Phoebus could vouchsafe on earth to dwell,
To win a rustic maid unto his call;
Then how much more should I adore the sight
Of her, in whom the heavens themselves delight?

When Priam's son in midst of Ida plain
Gave one the price, and other two the foile,
If she for whom I still abide in pain
Had lived then within the Troyan soil,
No doubt but hers had been the golden ball,
Helen had scaped rape, and Troy his fall.
Or if my dame had then enjoyed life
When Bacchus sought for Ariadne's love,
No doubt but she had only been his wife,
And flown from hence to sit with gods above:
For she exceeds his choice of Crete so far
As Phoebus doth excel a twinkling star.
But from the first all fates have thus assigned,

Resolved to dust, intombed here lieth Love,
Through fault of her, who here herself should lie;
He struck her breast, but all in vain did prove
To fire the ice: and doubting by and by
His brand had lost his force, he gan to try
Upon himself; which trial made him die.

In sooth no force; let those lament that lust;
I 'll sing a carol-song for obsequy;
For towards me his dealings were unjust,
And cause of all my passid misery:
The Fates, I think, seeing what I had passed,
In my behalf wrought this revenge at last.

How should I your true love know
From another one? IV, v
"By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.'

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.

1

How should I your true love know
 From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
 And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,
 He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
 At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
 Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
 With true-love showers.

2

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
 No, no, he is dead:

I PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
— When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
— Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
— With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
— But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
— And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
— They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly —