Thomas Lodge[1558-1625]Rosalind's Madrigal
¶LOVE in my bosom like a beeDoth 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 feastAnd yet he robs me of my rest:Ah ! wanton, will ye?
¶And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe 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![215]Else I with roses every dayWill 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 winIf he gainsay me?
¶What if I beat the wanton boyWith 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!
¶62 Rosaline
¶Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines.Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded, or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snowResembling heaven by every wink;The Gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!
¶Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face.Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm encloses[216]Apt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
¶Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies.To watch for glances every hourFrom 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 lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
¶With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed.Yet soft in 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 firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
¶Then muse not. Nymphs, though I bemoanThe 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!
¶65 PhillisLove guards the roses of thy lipsAnd 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;[217]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 will I praise thy deity.