Who would not this sight desire, Though he thought to see no more? O fair eyes, yet let me see One good look, and I am gone; Look on me, for I am he, Thou that art the shepherd's queen, A SWEET PASTORAL. FROM THE SAME. GOOD Muse, rock me asleep Sweet love, begone awhile, Beauty is born but to beguile See how my little flock That lov'd to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die. The bushes and the trees, Sweet Philomel, the bird The flowers have had a frost, The comfort of her favour. Now all these careful sights That how to hope upon delights, And, therefore, my sweet Muse, And in a dream bewray What fate shall be my friend, Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end. DR. THOMAS LODGE, BORN 1556-DIED 1625, WAS of a family in Lincolnshire, and was educated at Oxford. He practised as a physician in London, and is supposed to have fallen a martyr to the memorable plague of 1625. He wrote several plays and other poetical works of considerable merit, and translated the works of Josephus into English. ROSADER'S SONETTO. FROM LODGE'S ROMANCE, CALLED EUPHUES'S Golden LEGACY. TURN I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I look upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found; Search I the shade to flee my pain, Love meets me in the shades again; He will be partner of my moan; If so I mourn, he weeps with me, And where I am there will he be ; The God from coyness waxeth kind, And seems in self-same frame to fly, ANOTHER. FROM THE SAME. FIRST shall the heavens want starry light, The day want sun, and sun want bright, First shall the top of highest hill First direful Hate shall turn to peace, And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile, First Time shall stay his stayless race, ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. FROM THE SAME. 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, Ah, wanton, will ye! And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight; And makes his pillow of my knee |