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TURN I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I look upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found ;
Search I the shade to flee my pain,
Love meets me in the shades again ;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E’en there I meet with sacred Love.
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E’en on the brink I hear him sing ;
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan ;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be ;
When as I talk of Rosalind, -
The God from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in self-same frame to fly,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue,
For why, than Love I am more true:
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.

|“ The Phoenia, Nest.” 1593.] THE SHEPHERD's SORROW FOR HIS PHOEBE's IDISD AIN.

O woods unto your walks my body hies,
To loose the traitorous bonds of ’ticing Love,
Where trees, where herbs, where flowers,
Their native moisture pours,
From forth their tender stalks, to help mine eyes,
Yet their united tears may nothing move.

When I behold the fair adornéd tree,
Which lightning’s force and winter's frost resists,
Then Daphne's ill betide,
And Phoebus' lawless pride
Enforce me say, even such my sorrows be ;
For self-disdain in Phoebe's heart consists.

If I behold the flowers by morning tears,
Look lovely sweet, ah then forlorn T cry :
Sweet showers for Memnon shed,
All flowers by you are fed.
Whereas my piteous plaint, that still appears,
Yields vigour to her scorns, and makes me die.

When I regard the pretty, gleeful bird,
With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain,
I yield a tenor with my tears,
And whilst her music wounds mine ears,
Alas! say I, when will my notes afford
Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain .

When I behold upon the leafless bough
The hapless bird lament her love's depart,
I draw her biding nigh,
And, sitting down, I sigh,
And sighing say, Alas! that birds avow
A settled faith, yet Phoebe scorns my smart.

Thus weary in my walk, and woeful too,
I spend the day, forespent with daily grief:
Each object of distress
My sorrow doth express;
I doat on that which doth my heart undo,
And honour her that scorns to yield relief.

[* The Phoenia, Nest.”

Now I find thy looks were feignéd,
Quickly lost and quickly gained:
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart unstable, light as feathers:
Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted,
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason

Of thine eyes I made my mirror;
From thy beauty came mine error:
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deemed pity;
Thy false tears, that me aggrievéd,
First of all my heart deceived;
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason

Feigned acceptance, when I askéd,
Lovely words, with cunning maskéd ;
Holy vows, but heart unholy ;
Wretched man my trust was folly!
Lily white, and pretty winking;
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason

Now I see (O seemly cruel!)
Others warm them at my fuel:
Wit shall guide me in this durance,
Since in love is no assurance :
Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure :
Beauty is a fading treasure.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow, And make white these tresses yellow : Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint thee, dame despitefull And when time shall date thy glory, Then, too late, thou wilt be sorry. Siren pleasant, foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for this treason

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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?

[“Gallathed.” 1592.]

O yes, O yes, if any maid
Whom leering Cupid has betrayed
To powers of spite, to eyes of scorn,
And would in madness now see torn
The boy in pieces, let her come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

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