SONNET.w

ONLY, Sweet Love, afford me but thy heart,
Then close thine eyes within their ivory covers,
That they to me no beam of light impart,
Although they shine on all thy other lovers.
As for thy lip of ruby, cheek of rose,

Though I have kist them oft with sweet content,
I am content that sweet content to lose,

I assent.

If thy sweet Will will bar me, Let me not touch thy hand, but through thy glove, Nor let it be the pledge of kindness more: Keep all thy beauties to thyself, sweet Love!

I ask not such bold favours as before.

I beg but this, afford me but thy heart;
For then, I know, thou wilt the rest impart.

SONNET.

BEST pleas'd she is, when Love is most exprest, And sometime says, that Love should be requited; Yet is she griev'd my love should now be righted, When that my faith hath prov'd what I protest. Am I belov'd whose heart is thus opprest?

Or dear to her, and not in her delighted?

I live to see the sun, yet still benighted.
By her Despair is blam'd, and Hope supprest.

ww For her heart.. only 3d and 4th.

She still denies, yet still her heart consenteth,
She grants me all, but that which I desire;
She fuel sends, but bids me leave the fire,
She lets me die, and yet my death lamenteth.

O foolish Love, by reason of thy blindness,
I die for want of Love, yet kill'd with kindness!

SONNET.

WHEN a weak child is sick and out of quiet,

And for his tenderness can not sustain
Physic of equal strength, unto his pain
Physicians to the nurse prescribe a diet.
OI am sick, and in my sickness weak,

And through my weakness dead; if I but take
The pleasantest receipt that Art can make,
Or if I hear but my physician speak.

But, ah! fair God of Physic, it may be;

But physic to my nurse would me recover:
She whom I love with beauty nurseth me,
But with a bitter mixture kills her lover.
Yet I assure myself, I should not die,
If she were purged of her cruelty.

SONNET.

By J. S.*

WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love, as high as heav'n above,
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heav'n wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

SONNET.

By the same.

THE Poets fain that when the world began,

Both sexes in one body did remain;

Till Jove (offended with this double man)
Caus'd Vulcan to divide him into twain.

* Omitted 4th.

In this division he the heart did sever,

But cunningly he did indent the heart,
That if there were a reuniting ever,

Each part might know which was his counterpart.

See then, dear Love, th' indenture of my heart,

And read the cov'nants writ with holy fire:

See if your heart be not the counterpart

Of my true heart's indented chaste desire. And if it be, so may it ever be,

Two hearts in one, 'twixt you my Love and me.

A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE.**

By Thomas Campion.

OF
F Neptune's Empire let us sing,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
Down the high mountains sliding,
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields,
Wherein they dwell.

And every sea-god pays a gem
Yearly out of his wat 'ry cell,

To deck great Neptune's diadem.

** This Hymn was sung by Amphytrite, Thamesis, and other Sea

Nymphs, in Gray's-Inn Masque, at the Court, 1594.

The Trytons dancing in a ring,
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes quake,

Like the great thunder sounding:

The Sea-Nymphs chaunt their accents shrill, And the Syrens taught to kill

With their sweet voice,

Make ev'ry echoing rock reply,
Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
The praise of Neptune's Empery.

AND

OF HIS MISTRESS' FACE.

By the same.

AND would you see my Mistress' face? It is a flow'ry garden place:

Where knots of beauty have such grace,

That all is work and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born.
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,

Weak to dazzle and to vex:

It is th' Idæa of her sex,

Envy of whom doth world perplex.