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A cap of flowers, and rural kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A jaunty gown of finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
And shoes lind choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold. ,

A belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps, and amber studs ;
If these, these pleasures, can thee move,
To live with me, and be my love!

THE ANSWER.

By Sir Walter Ralegh.
IF all the world and love were young,
And truth on every shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

• This poem is printed thus in “ England's Helicon."

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd.
If all the world and love were young,
Aud truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain 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.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But

But fading flowers in every field
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, could love still breed;
Had joys no date, had age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Another of the same nature made since. Come, live with me, and be my dear, And we will revel all the year, In plains and groves, on hills and dales, Where fragrant air breeds sweetest gales.

There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar and the spreading vine;
And all the woods to be a screen,
Lest Phoebus kiss my summer's queen.

The seat for your disport shall be Over some river in a tree;

But could youth last, and love still breed;
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Where silver sand and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties with the spring.

There shall you see the nymphs at play ;
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.

The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,
Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to inflame the heart.

Upon the bare and leafless oak
The ring-dove's wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me and do no less.

In bowers of laurel trimly dight
We will outwear the silent night;
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.

Ten thousand glowworms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty.

Then in mine arms will I enclose
Lilies' fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.

Thus as we pass the welcome night,
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.

If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to Love's paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.

An Heroical Poem.
My wanton Muse, that whilom wont to sing
Fair Beauty's praise and Venus' sweet delight,
Of late had chang’d the tenor of her string
To higher tunes than serve for Cupid's fight:

Shrill trumpets' sound, sharp swords, and lances strong,
War, blood, and death, were matter of her song.

The God of Love by chance had heard thereof,
That I was prov'd a rebel to his crown;
“ Fit words for war," quoth he, with angry scoff,
“ A likely man to write of Mars his frown.

Well are they sped whose praises he shall write,
Whose wanton pen can nought but love endite.”

This said, he whisk'd his partycolour'd wings,
And down to earth he comes more swift than thought;
Then to my heart in angry haste he flings,
To see what change these news of wars had wrought.

He pries, and looks; he ransacks ev'ry vein ;
Yet finds he nought, save love, and lover's pain.

Then I, that now perceiv'd his needless fear,
With heavy smile began to plead my cause :
“ In vain,” quoth I, “ this endless grief I bear;
In vain I strive to keep thy grievous laws:

If after proof, so often trusty found,
Unjust Suspect condemn me as unsound.

Is this the guerdon of my faithful heart ?
Is this the hope on which my life is stayed ?
Is this the ease of never-ceasing smart?
Is this the price that for my pains is paid ?

Yet better serve fierce Mars in bloody field, Where death, or conquest, end, or joy doth yield!

Long have I serv’d: what is my pay but pain ?
Oft have I su'd: what gain I but delay?
My faithful love is 'quited with disdain ;
My grief a game, my pen is made a play;

Yea, love, that doth in other favour find,
In me is counted madness out of kind.

And last of all, but grievous most of all,
Thyself, sweet Love, hath killd me with suspect :
Could Love believe, that I from love would fall ?
Is war of force to make me love neglect ?

No, Cupid knows, my mind is faster set,
Than that by war I should my love forget.

My Muse, indeed, to war inclines her mind;
The famous acts of worthy Brute to write:
To whom the gods this island's rule assign'd,
Which long he sought by seas through Neptune's spite.

With such conceits my busy head doth swell;
But in my heart nought else but love doth dwell.

And in this war thy part is not the least :
Here shall my Muse Brute's noble love declare;
Here shalt thou see thy double love increasid,
Of fairest twins that ever lady bare.

Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright,
His conquer'd arms shall be thy triumph's light.

As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue,
And I thy glory through the world will ring;
So, by my pains, thou wilt vouchsafe to rue,
And kill Despair.” With that he whisk'd his wing,

And bid me write, and promis’d wished rest,
But sore I fear, false hope will be the best.

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