REPLY TO MARLOWE'S PASSIONATE
SHEPHERD

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

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IN THE GRACE OF WIT, OF TONGUE, AND FACE

HER face, her tongue, her wit, so fair, so sweet, so sharp,

First bent, then drew, now hit, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, to like, to learn, to love,

Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth lead, doth teach, doth move:

Her face, her tongue, her wit, with beams, with sound, with art,

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Doth blind, doth charm, doth rule, mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, with life, with hope, with skill,

Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth feed, doth feast, doth fill:

O face, O tongue, O wit, with frowns, with checks, with smart,

Wring not, vex not, wound not, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:

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This eye, this ear, this heart, shall joy, shall bind, shall swear

Your face, your tongue, your wit, to serve, to love, to fear.

1602

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Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction:
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;

Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;

Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;

Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;

Tell nature of decay;

Tell friendship of unkindness;

Tell justice of delay:

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;

Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.

No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king's attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And He hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
Against our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads His death, and then we live.

Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou givest salvation even for alms;
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.

And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,

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WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravished nightingale.
'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is 't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear.
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings!
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor Robin Red-breast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing,
'Cuckoo,' to welcome in the spring,
'Cuckoo,' to welcome in the spring!

Robert Greene (1558?-1592)

1584

SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD

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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,
And 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.

ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,

1590