The
Passionate Shepherd to His Love
by Christopher
Marlowe (see below for Ralegh's reply)
|
| Come live with me and be my love, |
| And we will all the pleasures
prove, |
| That hills and valleys, dales and
fields, |
And all the craggy mountains
yields.
|
| There we will sit upon the rocks, |
| And see the shepherds feed their
flocks, |
| By shallow rivers to whose falls |
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
|
| And I will make thee beds of
roses |
| With a thousand fragrant posies, |
| A cap pf flowers, and a kirtle |
Embroidered all with leaves of
myrtle;
|
| A gown made of the finest wool |
| Which from our pretty lambs we
pull; |
| Fair linèd slippers for the
cold, |
With buckles of the purest gold;
|
| A belt of straw and ivy buds, |
| With coral clasps and amber
studs: |
| And if these pleasures may thee
move, |
Come live with me and be my love.
|
| The shepherds' swains shall dance
and sing |
| For thy delight each May morning: |
| If these delights thy mind may
move, |
Then live with me and be my love.
Christopher Marlowe
|
The
Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd
by Sir
Walter Ralegh
|
| 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.
|
| Time 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 in 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.
|
| Sir Walter Ralegh | Classic
Poems |
