Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

And as the turtle dove To mate with whom he liveth, Such comfort fervent love Of you to my heart giveth.

Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

Now joined be our hands, Let them be ne'er asunder, But link'd in binding bands By metamorphosed wonder.

So should our severed bodies three As one for ever joined be.

POEM: DISPRAISE OF A COURTLY LIFE

Walking in bright Phoebus' blaze, Where with heat oppressed I was, I got to a shady wood, Where green leaves did newly bud; And of gra.s.s was plenty dwelling, Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.

In this wood a man I met, On lamenting wholly set; Ruing change of wonted state, Whence he was transformed late, Once to shepherds' G.o.d retaining, Now in servile court remaining.

There he wand'ring malecontent, Up and down perplexed went, Daring not to tell to me, Spake unto a senseless tree, One among the rest electing, These same words, or this affecting:

"My old mates I grieve to see Void of me in field to be, Where we once our lovely sheep Lovingly like friends did keep; Oft each other's friendship proving, Never striving, but in loving.

"But may love abiding be In poor shepherds' base degree?

It belongs to such alone To whom art of love is known: Seely shepherds are not witting What in art of love is fitting.

"Nay, what need the art to those To whom we our love disclose?

It is to be used then, When we do but flatter men: Friendship true, in heart a.s.sured, Is by Nature's gifts procured.

"Therefore shepherds, wanting skill, Can Love's duties best fulfil; Since they know not how to feign, Nor with love to cloak disdain, Like the wiser sort, whose learning Hides their inward will of harming.

"Well was I, while under shade Oaten reeds me music made, Striving with my mates in song; Mixing mirth our songs among.

Greater was the shepherd's treasure Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.

"Where how many creatures be, So many puffed in mind I see; Like to Juno's birds of pride, Scarce each other can abide: Friends like to black swans appearing, Sooner these than those in hearing.

"Therefore, Pan, if thou may'st be Made to listen unto me, Grant, I say, if seely man May make treaty to G.o.d Pan, That I, without thy denying, May be still to thee relying.

"Only for my two loves' sake, In whose love I pleasure take; Only two do me delight With their ever-pleasing sight; Of all men to thee retaining, Grant me with those two remaining.

"So shall I to thee always With my reeds sound mighty praise: And first lamb that shall befall, Yearly deck thine altar shall, If it please thee to be reflected, And I from thee not rejected."

So I left him in that place, Taking pity on his case; Learning this among the rest, That the mean estate is best; Better filled with contenting, Void of wishing and repenting.

POEM: DIRGE

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread, For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And faith fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said That Love is dead: His death-bed, peac.o.c.k's folly: His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy, His sole executor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead: Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, "Her eyes were once his dart."

From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

Alas! I lie: rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead, Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind: Where she his counsel keepeth Till due deserts she find.

Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy: Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

POEM: STANZAS TO LOVE

Ah, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If she will no comfort give, Make an end, yield up the ghost!

That she may, at length, approve That she hardly long believed, That the heart will die for love That is not in time relieved.

Oh, that ever I was born Service so to be refused; Faithful love to be forborn!

Never love was so abused.

But, sweet Love, be still awhile; She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee; Sweet! I see within her smile More than reason can reveal thee.

For, though she be rich and fair, Yet she is both wise and kind, And, therefore, do thou not despair But thy faith may fancy find.

Yet, although she be a queen That may such a snake despise, Yet, with silence all unseen, Run, and hide thee in her eyes:

Where if she will let thee die, Yet at latest gasp of breath, Say that in a lady's eye Love both took his life and death.

POEM: A REMEDY FOR LOVE

Philoclea and Pamela sweet, By chance, in one great house did meet; And meeting, did so join in heart, That th' one from th' other could not part: And who indeed (not made of stones) Would separate such lovely ones?

The one is beautiful, and fair As orient pearls and rubies are; And sweet as, after gentle showers, The breath is of some thousand flowers: For due proportion, such an air Circles the other, and so fair, That it her brownness beautifies, And doth enchant the wisest eyes.

Have you not seen, on some great day, Two goodly horses, white and bay, Which were so beauteous in their pride, You knew not which to choose or ride?

Such are these two; you scarce can tell, Which is the daintier bonny belle; And they are such, as, by my troth, I had been sick with love of both, And might have sadly said, 'Good-night Discretion and good fortune quite;'

But that young Cupid, my old master, Presented me a sovereign plaster: Mopsa! ev'n Mopsa! (precious pet) Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet, Are spells and charms of strong defence, To conjure down concupiscence.

How oft have I been reft of sense, By gazing on their excellence, But meeting Mopsa in my way, And looking on her face of clay, Been healed, and cured, and made as sound, As though I ne'er had had a wound?

And when in tables of my heart, Love wrought such things as bred my smart, Mopsa would come, with face of clout, And in an instant wipe them out.

And when their faces made me sick, Mopsa would come, with face of brick, A little heated in the fire, And break the neck of my desire.

Now from their face I turn mine eyes, But (cruel panthers!) they surprise Me with their breath, that incense sweet, Which only for the G.o.ds is meet, And jointly from them doth respire, Like both the Indies set on fire: