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!

Thomas Lodge

Description of 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 Phoebus' 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!

Her neck like to a stately tower

Where Love himself imprison'd lies,

To watch for glances every hour

From her divine and sacred eyes:

         Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,

Where Nature moulds the dew of light

To feed perfection with the same:

         Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:

         Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Nature herself her shape admires;

The gods are wounded in her sight;

And Love forsakes his heavenly fires

And at her eyes his brand doth light:

         Heigh, ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan

The absence of fair Rosaline,

Since for a fair there's fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine:

         Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

Thomas Lodge

The Earth, Late Chok'd with Showers

THE earth, late chok'd with showers,

Is now array'd in green,

Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen;

    The heavens laugh at her glory,

    Yet bide I sad and sorry.

The woods are deck'd with leaves,

And trees are clothed gay,

And Flora crown'd with sheaves,

With oaken boughs doth play;

    Where I am clad in black,

    The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees

Do sing with pleasant voices,

And chant in their degrees

Their loves and lucky choices;

    When I, whilst they are singing,

    With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;

Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have;

    They freely, I thrall; they jolly,

    I sad and pensive wholly.

Thomas Lodge

To Phyllis

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 I will praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her

In spite of these, and by firm faith deserve her.

Thomas Lodge