Robert Greene

Her paps are like fair apples in the prime, As round as orient pearls, as soft as down; They never vail their fair through winter's frown, But from their sweets Love sucks his summertime.

Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew, Or like the purple of Narcissus' flower; No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their power, But by her breath her beauties do renew.

Her cheeks like ripen'd lilies steep'd in wine, Or fair pomegranate-kernels wash'd in milk, Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk, Or gorgeous clouds upon the sun's decline.

Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool That Jason with his Grecian mates achiev'd; As pure as gold, yet not from gold deriv'd; As full of sweets as sweet of sweets is full.

Not Jove or Nature, should they both agree To make a woman of the firmament, Of his mix'd purity could not invent A sky-born form so beautiful as she.

How oft have I descending Titan seen His burning locks couch in the sea-queen's lap, And beauteous Thetis his red body wrap In watery robes, as he her lord had been!

Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela; Pallas in wit, all three, if you well view. For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,

As fair Aurora in her morning-grey, Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela. Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela.

Like to Diana in her summer-weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed When wash'd by Arethusa Fount they lie, Is fair Samela.

The wanton smil'd, father wept, Mother cried, baby lept; More he crow'd, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide: He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless,

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy. Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me,

O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower. Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.

And yet Dorastus shame not at thy shepherd's weed: the heavenly gods have sometimes earthly thoughts: Neptune became a ram, Jupiter a bull, Apollo a shepherd: they gods, and yet in love; and thou a man appointed to love.

Ah Franion, treason is loved of many, but the traitor hated of all: unjust offences may for a time escape without danger, but never without revenge.

Though men determine, the gods too dispose.

Oft times many things fall out between the cup and the lip.

He look'd, he sigh'd, he courted with a kiss, No better could the silly swad than this.

Fair is my love, for April in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place But cold December dwelleth in her heart.

Two moving hills Which, topp'd with pretty teats, discover down a vale Wherein the God of Love may deign to sleep.

Love is a lock that linketh noble minds, Faith is the key that shuts the spring of love.

O sir! I love the fruit that treason brings, But those that are the traitors, them I hate.

Marry, because you have drank with the King, And the King hath so graciously pledg'd you, You shall no more be call'd shoemakers, But you and yours, to the world's end, Shall be call'd the Trade of the Gentle Craft.