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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 Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, for 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 in 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!

XVII

T. Lodge

COLIN

EAUTY sat bathing by a spring

BE

Where fairest shades did hide her
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,

The cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye

To see what was forbidden:

But better memory said, fie!

So vain desire was chidden :—
Hey nonny nonny O!

Hey nonny nonny!

Into a slumber then I fell,

When fond imagination
Seeméd to see, but could not tell

Her feature or her fashion.

But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
And sometimes fall a-weeping,

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SHALL I compare thee to more temperate:

HALL I compare thee to a summer's day?

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date :

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
W. Shakespeare.

XIX

TO HIS LOVE

HEN in the chronicle of wasted time
see

WI see descriptions of the fairest wights,
WH

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ;

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing :

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. W. Shakespeare

XX

LOVE'S PERJURIES

N a day, alack the day!

ON

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not call it sin in me

That I am forsworn for thee:

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were,

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Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan

The suit, the service none tell can;

Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,

Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss

Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved -
Forget not this!

Sir T. Wyat

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