¶Rowlands Madrigall.
FAire Loue rest thee heere,
Neuer yet was morne so cloere,
Sweet be not vnkinde,
Let me thy fauour finde,
Or else for loue I die.
Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.
About this Item
- Title
- Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.
- Publication
- London :: Printed [by Thomas Snodham] for Richard More, and are to be sould at his shop in S. Dunstanes Church-yard,
- 1614.
- Rights/Permissions
-
This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this text, in whole or in part. Please contact project staff at eebotcp-info@umich.edu for further information or permissions.
- Subject terms
- Pastoral poetry, English.
- Link to this Item
-
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16274.0001.001
- Cite this Item
-
"Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16274.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 7, 2024.
Pages
Page [unnumbered]
Harke this pretty bubling spring,
How it makes the Meadowes ring,
Loue now stand my friend,
Here let all sorrow end,
And I will honour thee.
See where little Cupid lyes,
Looking babies in her eyes.
Cupid help me now,
Lend to me thy bowe,
to wound her that wounded me.
Here is none to see or tell,
All our Flocks are feeding by,
This banke with Roses spred,
Oh it is a dainty bed,
fit for my Loue and me.
Harke the birds in yonder Groaue,
How they chaunt vnto my Loue,
Loue be kinde to me,
As I haue beene to thee,
for thou hast wonne my hart.
Calme windes blow you faire,
Rock her thou sweet gentle ayre,
O the morne is noone,
The euening comes too soone,
to part my Loue and me.
The Roses and thy lips doe meete,
Oh that life were halfe so sweet,
Who would respect his breath,
That might die such a death,
oh that life thus might die.
All the bushes that be neere,
Page [unnumbered]
With sweet Nightingales beset,
Hush sweet and be still,
Let them sing their fill,
there's none our ioyes to let.
Sunne why do'st thou goe so fast?
Oh why do'st thou make such hast?
It is too earely yet,
So soone from ioyes to flit,
why art thou so vnkinde?
See my little Lambkins runne,
Looke on them till I haue done,
Hast not on the night,
To rob me of her sight,
that liue but by her eyes.
Alas, sweet Loue, we must depart,
Harke, my dogge begins to barke,
Some bodie's comming neere,
They shall not finde vs heere,
for feare of being chid.
Take my Garland and my Gloue,
Weare it for my sake my Loue,
Tomorrow on the greene,
Thou shalt be our Shepheards Queene,
crowned with Roses gay.
FINIS.
Michaell Drayton.