As ships in ports desired are drowned,
As fruit once ripe, then falls to ground,
As flies that seek for flames, are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought:
So fond DESIRE when it attains
The life expires, the woe remains.

And yet some poets fain would prove
AFFECTION to be perfect love;
And that DESIRE is of that kind
No less a passion of the Mind:
As if wild beasts and men did seek
To like, to love, to choose alike.

EDWARD DE VERE, Earl of OXFORD.

What cunning can express?

[R. S., Phanix Nest. 1593

J. BODENHAM, England's Helicon. 1600.]

HAT CUNNING can express

The favour of her face?
To whom, in this distress,
I do appeal for grace.
A thousand Cupids fly
About her gentle eye.

From whence, each throws a dart
That kindleth soft sweet fire
Within my sighing heart,
Possessed by desire.

No sweeter life I try,
Than in her love to die.

The lily in the field

That glories in his white;
For pureness now must yield
And render up his right.

Heaven pictured in her face,
Doth promise joy and grace.

Fair CYNTHIA's silver light

That beats on running streams, Compares not with her white, Whose hairs are all sunbeams. Her virtues so do shine

As day, unto mine eyne.

With this there is a red

Exceeds the damask rose : Which in her cheeks is spread, Whence every favour grows. In sky there is no star,

That she surmounts not far.

When PHOEBUS from the bed
Of THETIS doth arise;
The morning blushing red
In fair carnation-wise,

He shows it in her face
As queen of every grace.

This pleasant lily white,
This taint of roseate red,
This CYNTHIA's silver light,
The sweet fair Dea spread,

These sunbeams in mine eye;
These beauties make me die.

E. O.

THOMAS LODGE, M.D.

[ROSALYND. 1590.]

ROSALYND'S Madrigal.

OVE 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 ye!

Else I with roses, every day

will whip you hence!

And bind you, when you want to play; for your offence!

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in!
I'll make you fast it for your sin !

I'll count your power not worth a pin i"
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!
And 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!"