Thomas Lodge.

1556?-1625

107   Rosalind’s Madrigal

LOVE in my bosom like a bee
       Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
       Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
        Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
       With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
       The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
       Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day
       Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
       For your offence.
I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I’ll make you fast it for your sin;
I’ll count your power not worth a pin.
—Alas! what hereby shall I win
       If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
       With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
       Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
       Spare not, but play thee!

108   Phillis 1

MY Phillis hath the morning sun
    At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
    Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers,
    That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
    That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
    Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
    Nor grace to those that crave it.

109   Phillis 2

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips
    And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
    And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
    And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lower,
    And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,
    And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
    And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
    And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers
    Then will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.

110   Rosaline

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
     Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
     Whether unfolded or in twines:
         Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
    Resembling heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
    And I do tremble when I think
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
    That beautifies Aurora’s face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
    That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace.
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
    Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
    Apt to entice a deity:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!