Thou seest they now regard me not,

But all do follow thee.

And if I have so far presumed
With prying in thine eyes,
Yet let not comfort be consumed
That in thy pity lies;

But as thou art that Phyllis fair,
That fortune favour gives,
So let not love die in despair
That in thy favour lives.

The deer do browse upon the briar,
The birds do pick the cherries;
And will not Beauty grant Desire
One handful of her berries?
If it be so that thou hast sworn
That none shall look on thee,
Yet let me know thou dost not scorn
To cast a look on me.

But if thy beauty make thee proud,
Think then what is ordained;
The heavens have never yet allowed
That love should be disdained.
Then lest the Fates that favour love
Should curse thee for unkind,
Let me report for thy behoove
The honour of thy mind;
Let Corydon with full consent
Set down what he hath seen,
That Phyllida with Love's content
Is sworn the shepherds' queen

N. Breton

216.

A

My Lady Greensleeves

LAS! my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously;

And I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

For oh, Greensleeves was all my joy!
And oh, Greensleeves was my delight!
And oh, Greensleeves was my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth as fine as might be;

I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.
For oh, Greensleeves.

...

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,"
With gold embroidered gorgeously:

Thy petticoat of sendal right:

And these I bought thee gladly.

For oh, Greensleeves

Greensleeves now farewell! adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee!
For I am still thy lover true:
Come once again and love me!
For oh, Greensleeves . .

Anon.

217.

Ulysses and the Siren

Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,

Possess these shores with me:

The winds and seas are troublesome,

And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil

That travail in the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these.
But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth:
To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name;

This honour is a thing conceived,
And rests on others' fame:
Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile
The best thing of our life-
And give us up to toil.

our rest,

Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
No honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear

The time in idle sport:

For toil doth give a better touch

To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much
As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil,

Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversely

Find never tedious day,

And ease may have variety

As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame
These toils and dangers please;

And they take comfort in the same
As much as you in ease;

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:

When Pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth Opinion only cause
That's out of Custom bred,

Which makes us many other laws
Than ever Nature did.

1

No widows wail for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses. But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest;

And these great Spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best:
Το purge the mischiefs that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well changed for war.

Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here:
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won, that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not won;
For beauty hath created been
T'undo, or be undone.

S. Daniel

218. On the Queen's Return from the Low

ALLO

Countries

HAL LOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!

The day shall have its due.

'Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, On which let honour breathe;