Love is the fire and sighs the smoke,
The ashes, shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,

And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defiled souls;

For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath

To wash them in my blood." With this He vanish'd out of sight,

And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind

That it was Christmas-day.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593)

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing 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
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linéd 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.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (15529-1618)*
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE 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.

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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.

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PILGRIM TO PILGRIM

As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,†

Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?

How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one,
As I went to the holy land,

That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;

There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,

Such an angel-like face,
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,
By her gait, by her grace.

She hath left me here all alone,
All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.

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And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own, And her joy did you make?

I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.

Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;

He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless1 content,
And a trustless joy;

He is won with a world of despair
And is lost with a toy.2

Of womankind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abusèd,

Under which many childish desires

And conceits are excusèd.

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turns his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he getsCome hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers.

FROM CYMBELINE

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!

THOMAS DEKKER (1570?-1641?)

FROM PATIENT GRISSELL

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?

O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers? O swect content, O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace! apace! apace! apace! Honest labour bears a lovely face.

Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? O sweet content!

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king,
O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content!

Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619)
CHERRY-RIPE

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow;

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: "Though they to one be ten

Be not amazèd!

Yet have we well begun: Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun

By Fame been raisèd!

"And for myself," quoth he, "This my full rests shall be: England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me!

Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall She sustain
Loss to redeem me!

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under cur swords they fell.

No less our skill is, Than when our Grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.”

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led;
With the main, Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen:

Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone; Armour on armour shone; Drum now to drum did groan:

To hear, was wonder; That, with the cries they make, The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake; Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingnam,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong; Arrows a cloth-yard long,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent;
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
Fer famous England stood

With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another!
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford, the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily;
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble Fray;
Which Fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

BEN JONSON (15739-1637)

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither sl would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead smoother
Than words that soothe her;

And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face

As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements
strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she

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