He. What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.
She. What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.
She. But they say, the bee's a rover,
That he'll fly when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.
He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
"Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.
Sweet rose of May, sweet rose of May,
Whither, ah whither fled away?-
What's gone no time can e'er restore :
I come no more-I come no more.
MERIVALE (from SAPPHO).
Daphnis cum Phyllide.
D. Flosculo qvod apis petens
Mella roscida per nigras
Frondium latebras, erit
Daphnis id tibi, Phylli.
P. Ripa qvod viridans aqvis
Adfluentibus osculaqve
Adsonantibus, ut fluunt,
Phyllis id tibi, Daphni.
P. Ast apis, perhibent, suis
Plena deliciis volat;
Postqve basia perfidus
Ille labitur amnis.
D. Flore si color effluit,
Ripa tempore si labat,
Mella praeripiant apes
Fas sit, oscula rivi.
Rosa Maii, rosa dulcis, mihi qvo te revocanti
Mihi qvo nunc abiisti?
Qvod abivit prece nulla revocabis: tibi rursum
Tibi nunqvam reviresco.
Oh, think not that with garlands crown'd
Inhuman near thy grave we tread;
Or blushing roses scatter round,
To mock the paleness of the dead.
What though we drain the fragrant bowl,
In flowers adorn'd and silken vest,
Oh, think not, brave departed soul,
We revel to disturb thy rest.
Feign'd is the pleasure that appears,
And false the triumph of our eyes,
Our draughts of joy are dash'd with tears,
Our songs imperfect and in sighs.
We inly mourn: o'er flowery plains
To roam in joyous trance is thine,
And pleasures unallied to pains,
Unfading sweets, immortal wine.
On a Pipe in the Temple of Venus.
Say, rustic Pipe, in Cytherea's dome
Why sounds this echo of a shepherd's home?
Nor rocks nor valleys here invite the strain;
But all is Love-go seek thy hills again.
HODGSON (from the Greek Anthology).
Qvod tua florentes sertis prope
Ne tu saevitiae nos age, care, reos:
Neu, qvae pallenti possint inludere morti,
Per tumulum sparsas crede rubere rosas.
Qvid si, dum bibimus redolentia pocula, cingit
Aurea palla humeros, florea vitta comas,
Talia ne, fortes inter fortissume manes,
Rere tuae labem festa qvietis agi.
Fingimus ah vani simulato gaudia risu,
Inqve oculis fallax ille triumphus inest; In calices furtim lacrumarum stillat amaror, Inter singultus carmina manca cadunt.
Nos gemimus: celebrare tuum est florentia prata ;
Sunt tibi sincerae somnia laetitiae,
Qvaeqve malo nescit tingi maerore voluptas,
Et sine felle sales et sine faece merum.
Dic, Calame agrestis, Paphiae sub tegmine divae Cur pastoritio vox sonat apta lari?
Non iuga, non virides poscunt hic carmina valles; Hic nil non Amor est: ad tua saxa redi.
Exton. Bolingbroke.
E. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.
B. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
Upon my head and all this famous land.
E. From your own mouth, my lord, I wrought this deed.
B. They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never shew thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.
Come mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent.
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after: grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.
Love is a circle that doth ever move
In the same sweet eternity of Love.
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