« 前へ次へ »
"And tell them thus from me,
Their time most happy is,
If to their time they reason had,
To know the truth of this."
Poison is also put in medicine,
And unto man his health doth oft
The fire that all things eke consumeth clean,
May hurt and heal: then if that this be true,
I trust some time my harm may be my health,
Since every woe is joinéd with some wealth.
A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS
HE WOULD LOVE.
A FACE that should content me wondrous
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold
With gladsome cheer, all grief for to ex-
With sober looks so would I that it should
Speak without words, such words as none can tell;
The tress also should be of crispéd gold. With wit and these, might chance I might be tied,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.
Whereat I sighed, and said,
Farewell my wonted joy!
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, COME live with me, and be my love, To every little boy;
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
Wood 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,
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
For thy delight, each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my 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.
THE NYMPH'S REPLY.
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.
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon;
My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When givers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.
My gown of glory (hope's true gauge),
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's 'balmer,
Whilst my soul, a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
No other balm will there be given.
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill;
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then, by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh, like me.
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.