TOR'S

THE THIRD PASTOR'S SONG

Let then poets feign their pleasure
In their fictions of love's treasure;
Proud high spirits seek their graces
In their idol painted faces;
My love's spirit's lowliness,
In affection's humbleness,
Under heaven no happiness
Seeks, but in this shepherdess.
For whose sake I say and swear,
By the passions that I bear,
Had I got a kingly grace,
I would leave my kingly place,
And in heart be truly glad
To become a country lad;
Hard to lie, and go full bare,
And to feed on hungry fare;
So I might but live to be,
Where I might but sit to see
Once a day, or all day long,
The sweet subject of my song;
In Aglaia's only eyes
All my worldly Paradise.

Thomas Lodge

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;
His 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!

Sitting by a fount I spied her:

Sweet her touch,

Rare her voice;

Touch and voice what may distain you?

As she sang,

I did sigh,