If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love.
Times drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains 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 to me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.
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.
[667] Oldys in his annotated copy (preserved in the British Museum) of Langbaine's _Engl. Dram. Poets_, under the article _Marlowe_ remarks:--"Sir Walter Raleigh was an encourager of his [_i.e._ Marlowe's] Muse; and he wrote an answer to a Pastoral Sonnet of Sir Walter's [_sic_], printed by Isaac Walton in his book of fishing." It would be pleasant to think that Marlowe enjoyed Raleigh's patronage; but Oldys gives no authority for his statement.
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 breathes 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, Where silver sands and pebbles sing Eternal ditties to 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 tunËd throats Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes, Which to your senses will impart A music to enflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak The ring-doves' 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 out-wear the silent night, While Flora busy is to spread Her richest treasure on our bed.