LE

SONNET CXVI

ET me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments: love is not love,

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove;
O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

SONG FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT”

UNDER the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

SONG FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT"

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Wotton

TO HIS MISTRESS,

ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF BOHEMIA *

You

meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown?

*Elizabeth of Bohemia was daughter of James I.

So when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind:
By virtue first, then choice, a queen, —
Tell me, if she were not designed
The eclipse and glory of her kind?