Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 48

BOOK FIRST
48 POST MORTEM

If thou survive my well-contented day
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;

Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought
'Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
W. SHAKESPEARE.

Page 49

BOOK FIRST
49 THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
That you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world, that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
W. SHAKESPEARE.

Page 50

BOOK FIRST
50 MADRIGAL

Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:
Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
I'll begin it,-Ding, dong, bell.
-Ding, dong, bell.
W. SHAKESPEARE.

Page 51

BOOK FIRST
51 CUPID AND CAMPASPE

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
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 of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
At 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?
J. LYLY.

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