THOMAS LODGE (1558?–1625)

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist,2 wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it for your sin,

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A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear,

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great;

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;4 Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!

From THE TEMPEST
ARIEL'S SONGS

Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands;

Curtsied when you have, and kissed
The wild waves whist,5

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