THOMAS LODGE

LOVE 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 long to play, For your offence. I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in; I’ll make you fast it for your sin; I’ll count your power not worth a pin. —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; Then 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!

MY Phillis hath the morning sun At first to look upon her; And Phillis hath morn-waking birds Her risings still to honour. My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers, That smile when she treads on them; And Phillis hath a gallant flock, That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath too hard a heart, Alas that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it.

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips And flies about them like a bee; If I approach he forward skips, And if I kiss he stingeth me. Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty shine; And if I look the boy will lower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine. Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same; And if I tempt it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game. Love, let me cull her choicest flowers; And pity me, and calm her eye; Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers Then will I praise thy deity. But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora’s face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace. Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck like to a stately tower Where Love himself imprison’d lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft to touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Nature herself her shape admires; The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there’s fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!