Part 8 (1/2)

Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no s.p.a.ce For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come, he will enter And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight; But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him By having him confin'd, And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may; Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The Phoenix of the East; The lioness, you may move her To give o'er her prey; But you will never stop a lover-- He will find out his way.

Anon.

PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME.

Oh, what a plague is love!

I cannot bear it, She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it; It so torments my mind, That my heart faileth, She wavers with the wind, As a s.h.i.+p saileth; Please her the best I may, She looks another way; Alack and well a-day!

Phillida flouts me.

I often heard her say That she loved posies: In the last month of May I gave her roses, Cowslips and gillyflow'rs And the sweet lily, I got to deck the bow'rs Of my dear Philly; She did them all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore, 'tis flat and plain Phillida flouts me.

Which way soe'er I go, She still torments me; And whatsoe'er I do, Nothing contents me: I fade, and pine away With grief and sorrow; I fall quite to decay, Like any shadow; Since 'twill no better be, I'll bear it patiently; Yet all the world may see Phillida flouts me.

Circa 1610.

IN PRAISE OF TWO.

Faustina hath the fairest face, And Phillida the better grace; Both have mine eye enriched: This sings full sweetly with her voice; Her fingers make so sweet a noise: Both have mine ear bewitched.

Ah me! sith Fates have so provided, My heart, alas! must be divided.

Anon.

TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind, That kisses everything it meets; And since thou can with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd stands, Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells; But, pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweet no longer with her dwells.

But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide, When thou hast handled been a while; Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;-- And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.