XXI.

A

VIRELAY.

CCURST be love, and they that trust his trains ;
He tastes the fruit, whil'st others toil :

He brings the lamp, we lend the oil:
He sows distress, we yield him soil:
He wageth war, we bide the foil.

Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains :
He lays the trap, we seek the snare:
He threatneth death, we speak him fair:
He coins deceits, we foster care :
He favoureth pride, we count it rare.

Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains;
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art:
He vows content, he pays with smart:
He swears relief, yet kills the heart:

He calls for truth, vet scorns desert.

Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains.

Whose heaven is hell; whose perfect joys are pains.

XXII.

ROBERT GREENE, 1560?-1592.

DORON'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS FAIR

L

SHEPHERDESS SAMELA.

IKE to Diana in her summer weed,

Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela.

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa fount they lie,

Is fair Samela.

As fair Aurora in her morning gray,

Decked with the ruddy glister of her love;

Is fair Samela.

Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day,

Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancies move;

Shines fair Samela.

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,

Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory,

Of fair Samela.

Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams,

Her brows bright arches framed of ebony,

Thus fair Samela

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,

For she's Samela.

Pallas in wit, all three you well may view,

For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,

XXIII.

SONG.

Yield to Samela.

A

H! were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,

Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land,

Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun! imagine me the west,

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast.

XXIV.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL,

1560-1595.

A

THE BURNING BABE.

SI in hoary winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,

A pretty babe all burning bright,
Did in the air appear;

Who scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shed,

As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were bred.

'Alas!' quoth he, 'but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire, but I;

My faultless breast the furnace is,

The fuel, wounding thorns;

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shames and scorns;