The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 24

"FORGET NOT YET"

The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great a.s.says, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this!-- How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss-- Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!

Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]

FAWNIA From "Pandosto"

Ah! 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; Compa.s.sed she is with thorns and cankered flower.

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 vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done.

O glorious sun, imagine me the west, s.h.i.+ne in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

THE Pa.s.sIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE Pa.s.sIONATE SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither,--soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-- All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true pa.s.sion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compa.s.sion.

Silence in love bewrays 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 true, though secret pa.s.sion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compa.s.sion.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

TO HIS COY LOVE

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me!

I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me.

These poor half-kisses kill me quite-- Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!

Show me no more those snowy b.r.e.a.s.t.s With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!