The Passionate Shepherd to His Love (3)

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come with me and be my love,
And we will all pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or sleepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of 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 lined 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 shepherd’s 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, 1599

The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

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.

The 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,
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 me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

- Walter Raleigh, 1600

A Pauper joins the Nymph and the Shepherd

O Dream the world was young, and love were too,
I dreamed there was truth in every woman’s coo.
Not my pleasures, but was she moved?
She was with me, and was thy love.

O time that drives sheep from field to fold,
O river raged and rocks grow old.
But my Love will make these rocks new,
And calm the river’s tides afew.

These flowers fade, and roses dead,
Thy love renews, roses now red.
To wayward winter reckoning yields cold,
Love turns it to jolly summer fields of gold.

Yet I have no gowns, no shoes, no bed of roses,
No cap, no kirtle, no fragrant posies.
Not a thing embroidered all with leaves of myrtle,
Since I have nothing, No, not little.

No belt of straw, no ivy buds,
No coral clasps, no amber studs,
Not these in I, she was not moved,
And fled from me, was not thy love.

And world now cold, and love not fed,
Our age to date, our joys now dead.
These tears and cries I say will prove,
She was with thee, and was thy love.

-Ramon Damasing, 2005