SONNET.

All ye that grieve to think my death so near,
Take pity on yourselves, whose thought is blind:
Can there be day unless some light appear?

Can fire be cold, which yieldeth heat by kind?
If love were passed, my life would soon decay;
Love bids me hope, and hope is all my stay.

And you that see in what estate I stand,

Now hot, now cold, and yet am living still,
Persuade yourselves Love hath a mighty hand,
And custom frames what pleaseth best her will:
A lingering use of Love hath taught my breast
To harbour strife, and yet to live in rest.

The man that dwells far north hath seldom harm
With blast of winter's wind, or nipping frost ;
The negro seldom feels himself too warm,

If he abide within his native coast;

So love in me a second nature is,

And custom makes me think my woes are bliss.

SONNET.

Youth made a fault through lightness of belief,
Which fond belief Love placéd in my breast;

But now I find that reason gives relief,

And time shows truth, and wit that's bought is best: Muse not therefore although I change my vein,

He runs too far which never turns again.

Henceforth my mind shall have a watchful eye,

I'll scorn fond love, and practice of the same;

The wisdom of my heart shall soon descry

Each thing that's good from what deserveth blame.

My song shall be, "Fortune hath spit her spite, And Love can hurt no more with all his might."

Therefore all you, to whom my cause is known, Think better comes, and pardon what is past: I find that all my wildest oats are sown,

And joy to see what now I see at last; And since that Love was cause I trod awry, I here take off his bells, and let him fly.

THOMAS LODGE.

1556-1625.

[" Rosalynde: Euphues Golden Legacie." 1581.]

ROSADOR'S SONNETO.

TURN I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I look upon the ground,

Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to flee my pain,
Love meets me in the shades again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,

E'en there I meet with sacred Love.
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn, he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be;
When as I talk of Rosalind,
The God from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in self-same frame to fly,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue,
For why, than Love I am more true:
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.

["The Phoenix Nest." 1593.]

THE SHEPHERD'S SORROW FOR HIS PHEBE'S DISDAIN.

O woods! unto your walks my body hies,

To loose the traitorous bonds of 'ticing Love,
Where trees, where herbs, where flowers,
Their native moisture pours,

From forth their tender stalks, to help mine eyes,
Yet their united tears may nothing move.

When I behold the fair adornéd tree,

Which lightning's force and winter's frost resists,
Then Daphne's ill betide,

And Phoebus' lawless pride

Enforce me say, even such my sorrows be;
For self-disdain in Phoebe's heart consists.

If I behold the flowers by morning tears,
Look lovely sweet, ah! then forlorn I cry:
Sweet showers for Memnon shed,
All flowers by you are fed.

Whereas my piteous plaint, that still appears,
Yields vigour to her scorns, and makes me die.

When I regard the pretty, gleeful bird,

With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain,

I yield a tenor with my tears,

And whilst her music wounds mine ears,

Alas! say I, when will my notes afford

Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain?

When I behold upon the leafless bough

The hapless bird lament her love's depart,

I draw her biding nigh,

And, sitting down, I sigh,

And sighing say, Alas! that birds avow

A settled faith, yet Phoebe scorns my smart.

Thus weary in my walk, and woeful too,
I spend the day, forespent with daily grief:
Each object of distress

My sorrow doth express;

I doat on that which doth my heart undo,
And honour her that scorns to yield relief.

["The Phoenix Nest."]

Now I find thy looks were feignéd,
Quickly lost and quickly gainéd;
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart unstable, light as feathers:
Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted,
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Of thine eyes I made my mirror;
From thy beauty came mine error:
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deeméd pity;
Thy false tears, that me aggrievéd,
First of all my heart deceivéd;

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feigned acceptance, when I asked,
Lovely words, with cunning maskéd;
Holy vows, but heart unholy;
Wretched man! my trust was folly!
Lily white, and pretty winking;
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking.

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!