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Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love for fecret passion;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And fues for no compaffion.
THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.
“ ShepheRD, what's love? I pray thee, tell!"
It is that fountain, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that fauncing bell
That tolls us all to heav'n or hell;
And this is love, as. I heard tell.
• Yet, what is love? I pray thee, fay!"
It is a work on holiday ;
It is December match'd with May,
When lufty woods, in fresh array,
Hear, ten months after, of the play ;
And this is love, as I hear say.
“ Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine ?"
It is a sunshine mix'd with raini;
It is a tooth-ach, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain,
The lass faith, No, and would full fain!
And this is love, as I hear saine.
“ Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"
It is a yea, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray ;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then, nymphs, take 'vantage while ye may,
And this is love, as I hear fay.
“ Yet, what is love ? good shepherd, show!"
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it fo;
And, shepherd, this is love I trow.
Even such is time ; which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have! And pays us nought but age and duft,
Which, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts
the story of our days. And from which grave, and earth, and dust, The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.
Come live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year,
In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breeds sweetest gales.
There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar and the spreading vine,
And all the woods to be a skreen,
Left Phebus kiss my summer's green.
The seat at your disport shall be,
Over fome river, in a tree,
Where silver fands, and pebbles, fing
Eternal ditties with the spring.
There shall you see the nymphs at play,
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.
The birds with heavenly-tuned throats,
Poffefs wood's echo with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to inflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak,
The ring-dove's wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me,
and do no less.
In bowers of laurel, trimly dight,
We will outwear the filent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with more majesty
Then in mine arms will I inclose
Lily's fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
Thus, as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and fing melodious founds.
If these may ferve for to entice
Your presence to love's paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.