Silvia

Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due;
Only with you not miracles are wonders.

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Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

WHO is Silvia? What is she?

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

CUPID AND CAMPASPE
From "Alexander and Campaspe "

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And last he set her both his eyes-
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

John Lyly [1554?-1606]

APOLLO'S SONG

From "Midas"

My Daphne's hair is twisted gold,

Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold,

My Daphne's brow enthrones the Graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces,

On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry,

Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt,
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,

My Daphne's music charms all ears.
Fond am I thus to sing her praise;

These glories now are turned to bays.

John Lyly [1554?-1606]

'FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE"

From "Perimedes "

FAIR is my love for April's in her face,

Her lovely breasts September claims his part,

And lordly July in her eyes takes place,

But cold December dwelleth in her heart;

Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire,
Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes,
As air perfumed with amber is her breath,
Like swelling waves her lovely breasts do rise,

As earth, her heart, cold, dateth me to death:
Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live,
When unkind earth death and despair doth give!

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face,

Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favor, courtesy, and grace,

But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain. Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

SAMELA

From "Menaphon"

LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,

Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,

Goes fair Samela;

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa's Fount they lie,
Is fair Samela.

As fair Aurora in her morning-gray,
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela;

Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day,

Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,
Shines fair Samela.

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela;

Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;

Her brows bright arches framed of ebony:

Thus fair Samela

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,
For she's Samela;

Pallas, in wit,-all three, if you well view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity

Yield to Samela.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA

DIAPHENIA like the daffadowndilly,

White as the sun, fair as the lily,

Heigh ho, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams;

How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.

Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
Fair sweet, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as each flower

Loves the sun's life-giving power;

For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia like to all things blessed,
When all thy praises are expressed,

Dear joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their careful king:

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

Henry Constable [1562-1613]

ROSALINE

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame color is her hair

Whether unfolded or in twines:

Rosaline

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses

Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From 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 light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft to touch and sweet to view:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

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