24.

Yet, though thus respected,
By-and-by

Ye do die,

Poor girls, neglected.

R. Herrick

Perigot and Willie's Roundelay

T fell upon a holly eve,

Hey ho, hollidaye!

When holly fathers wont to shrieve,

Now gynneth this roundelay.

Sitting upon a hill so hye,

Hey ho, the high hyll!

The while my flocke did feede thereby,
The while the shepheard selfe did spill:

I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
Hey ho, Bonibell !

Tripping over the dale alone:

She can trippe it very well;
Well decked in a frocke of gray,
Hey ho, gray is greete!

And in a kirtle of greene saye,

The greene is for maydens meete.

A chapelet on her head she wore,
Hey ho, chapelet!

Of sweete violets therein was store,

She sweeter then the violet.

My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode, Hey ho, seely sheepe!

And gazd on her, as they were wood, - Woode as he, that did them keepe.

As the bonnilasse passed bye,
Hey ho, bonilasse!

She rovde at me with glauncing eye,
As cleare as the christall glasse:
All as the sunnye beame so bright,
Hey ho, the sunne beame!

Glaunceth from Phoebus face forthright,
So love into my hart did streame:

Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes,
Hey ho, the thonder!

Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,
So cleaves thy soule asonder:
Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye
Hey ho, the moonelight!

Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:

Such play is a pitteous plight!

The glaunce into my heart did glide,
Hey ho, the glyder!

Therewith my soule was sharply gryde,

Such woundes soone wexen wider.

Hasting to raunch the arrow out,
Hey ho, Perigot!

I left the head in my hart roote:
It was a desperate shot.

25.

There it ranckleth ay more and more,
Hey ho, the arrowe!

Ne can I find salve for. my sore:

Love is a cureless sorrowe.

And though my bale with death I brought,
Hey ho, heavie cheere!

Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought:
So you may buye gold to deare.

But whether in paynefull love I pyne,

Hey ho, pinching payne!

Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine.
But if thou can her obteine,
And if for gracelesse griefe I dye,
Hey ho, gracelesse griefe!
Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:
Let thy follye be the priefe.

And you that sawe it, simple shepe,
Hey ho, the fayre flocke!

For priefe thereof my death shall weepe,
And mone with many a mocke.

So learnd I love on a hollye eve,

Hey ho, holidaye!

That ever since my hart did greve:
Now endeth our roundelay.

E. Spenser

The Blossom

Na day-alack the day!

ON

Love, whose month was ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

26.

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick.to death,
Wished himself the heaven's breath.
"Air," quoth he, "thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alas, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love." W. Shakespeare

FAIR

But

To Blossoms

AIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Twas pity Nature brought you forth
Merely to show your worth

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

R. Herrick

27.

The Blossom

LITTLE think'st thou, poor flower,

Whom I have watched six or seven days,
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,
- Little think'st thou

That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fall'n, or not at all.

Little think'st thou, poor heart,
That labourest yet to nestle thee,

And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,

And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow,
- Little think'st thou

That thou, to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with the sun and me a journey take.

But thou, which lov'st to be

Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say

"Alas! if you must go, what's that to me? Here lies my business, and here will I stay: