Thy silver dishes for thy meat Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing Christopher Marlowe. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. IF all the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed 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,-- What should we talk of dainties then, But could youth last and love still breed, Then those delights my mind might move Sir Walter Raleigh. XXXI. THE TIME FOR LOVE. 'TIS NOT HEREAFTER. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Every wise man's son doth know. In delay there lies no plenty,- William Shakespeare. XXXII. THE TIME FOR LOVE. WHY DELAY? PHYLLIS! why should we delay Beauty like a shadow flies, Phyllis! to this truth we owe For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love. Edmund Waller. XXXIII. THE HOUR OF LOVE. LEONARD. THE sun upon the lake is low, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Now all whom varied toil and care In the calm sunset may repair The noble dame on turret high, The village maid, with hand on brow For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, The woodlark at his partner's side All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long! Sir Walter Scott. XXXIV. THE HOUR OF LOVE. COUNTY GUY. AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade To Beauty shy, by lattice high, The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know But where is County Guy? Sir Walter Scott. XXXV. LOVE'S PRESENT. WHERE found Love his yesterday? We can swear it, we who stand, By-and-by and Long-ago, Last month's buds, next winter's snow,- Do we wot of rathe or sere In Love's boundless summer year, Suns that rose and suns that set; Do we count by dawn and night, Thou and I, dear, I and thou? Augusta Webster. XXXVI. LOVE'S SEASON, SPRING. IT was a lover and his lass With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino! Between the acres of the rye These pretty country folks would lie : |