Of thy streets which thou hold'st best, And most frequent of the rest, Happy Mich-Parke, of the year, On the fourth of August there, Let thy maids from Flora's bowers, With their choice and daintiest flowers Deck thee up, and from their store With brave garlands crown that door. The old man passing by that way, To his son in time shall say, "There was that lady born, which long To after ages shall be sung;"

Who unawares being passed by,

Back to that house shall cast his eye,
Speaking my verses as he goes,
And with a sigh shut every close.
Dear city, travelling by thee,
When thy rising spires I see,
Destined her place of birth;
Yet methinks the very earth
Hallowed is, so far as I
Can thee possibly desery:
Then thou, dwelling in this place,
Hearing some rude hind disgrace
Thy city with some scurvy thing,
Which some jester forth did bring,
Speak these lines where thou dost come,

And strike the slave forever dumb.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

1563-1593.

["England's Helicon." 1600.]

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That vallies, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs.

And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delights each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

EDWARD VERE,

EARL OF OXFORD.

1534()-1604.

["The Phoenix Nest." 1593.]

THE SHEPHERD'S COMMENDATION OF HIS NYMPH.

WHAT shepherd 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 which 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.

So bright my nymph doth shine
As day unto mine eyen.

With this there is a red

Exceeds the damask rose;

Which in her cheeks is spread,
Where every favour grows.

In sky there is no star,

But she surmounts it far.

When Phoebus from the bed

Of Thetis doth arise,

The morning blushing red,

In fair carnation-wise;

He shows in my nymph's face,

As queen of every grace.

This pleasant lily white,
This taint of roseate red,
This Cynthia's silver light,

This sweet fair Dea spread,

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