Robert Greene.

1560-1592

114   Samela

LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,
    Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
       Goes fair Samela.
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed
    When wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie,
       Is fair Samela.
As fair Aurora in her morning grey,
    Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her love
       Is fair Samela;
Like lovely Thetis on a calmàed day
    Whenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,
       Shines fair Samela.

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
    Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
       Of fair Samela;
Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;
    Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.
       Thus fair Samela
Passeth 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.

115   Fawnia

AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
So as she shows she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower.
     Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn,
     She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be comparàed to her note;
Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,
Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat.
Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed
She comforts all the world as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;
When she is set the gladsome day is done.
     O glorious sun, imagine me the west,
     Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

116   Sephestia’s Lullaby

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
   Mother’s wag, pretty boy,
   Father’s sorrow, father’s joy;
   When thy father first did see
   Such a boy by him and me,
   He was glad, I was woe;
   Fortune changàed made him so,
   When he left his pretty boy,
   Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
   Streaming tears that never stint,
   Like pearl-drops from a flint,
   Fell by course from his eyes,
   That one another’s place supplies;
   Thus he grieved in every part,
   Tears of blood fell from his heart,
   When he left his pretty boy,
   Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
   The wanton smiled, father wept,
   Mother cried, baby leapt;
   More he crow’d, more we cried,
   Nature could not sorrow hide:
   He must go, he must kiss
   Child and mother, baby bliss,
   For he left his pretty boy,
   Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.