Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela;

Her tresses gold, her eyes like gla.s.sy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s are ivory Of fair Samela;

Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams, Her brows, bright arches fram'd of ebony; Thus fair Samela

Pa.s.seth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, (For she's Samela!)

Pallas in wit,--all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela.

Robert Greene.

KINDS OF LOVE.

Foolish love is only folly; Wanton love is too unholy; Greedy love is covetous; Idle love is frivolous; But the gracious love is it That doth prove the work of wit.

Beauty but deceives the eye; Flattery leads the ear awry; Wealth doth but enchant the wit; Want, the overthrow of it; While in Wisdom's worthy grace, Virtue sees the sweetest face.

There hath Love found out his life, Peace without all thought of strife; Kindness in Discretion's care; Truth, that clearly doth declare Faith doth in true fancy prove, l.u.s.t the excrements of Love.

Then in faith may fancy see How my love may construed be; How it grows and what it seeks; How it lives and what it likes; So in highest grace regard it, Or in lowest scorn discard it.

Robert Greene.

LOVE AND BEAUTY.

Pretty twinkling starry eyes, How did Nature first devise Such a sparkling in your sight As to give Love such delight, As to make him like a fly, Play with looks until he die?

Sure ye were not made at first For such mischief to be curst; As to kill Affection's care That doth only truth declare; Where worth's wonders never wither, Love and Beauty live together.

Blessed eyes, then give your blessing, That in pa.s.sion's best expressing; Love that only lives to grace ye, May not suffer pride deface ye; But in gentle thought's directions Show the power of your perfections.

Robert Greene.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core.

May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers; But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers.

With soothing words inthralled souls She chains in servile bands!

Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms; Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain.

Robert Southwell.

THE HEART OF STONE.

Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose!

It was from cheeks that shame the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, "'Tis Cupid's fire;"

Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,-- Yet not a heart to save my pain?

O Venus, take thy gifts again!

Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like your own.

John Harrington.

A SHEPHERD'S SONG TO HIS LOVE.

Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh-ho, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams: How blest I were if thou would'st prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For, dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee!

As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then, in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

Henry Constable.