The plays & poems of Robert Greene Edited with introductions and notes by J. Churton Collins |
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| XV. | XV MADRIGALL. |
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 | The plays & poems of Robert Greene |  |
XV
MADRIGALL.
Rest thee desire, gaze not at such a Starre,
Sweet fancy sleepe, loue take a nappe awhile:
Thy busie thoughts that reach and rome so farre,
With pleasant dreames the length of time beguile.
Faire Venus coole my ouer-heated brest,
And let my fancy take her wonted rest.
Sweet fancy sleepe, loue take a nappe awhile:
Thy busie thoughts that reach and rome so farre,
With pleasant dreames the length of time beguile.
Faire Venus coole my ouer-heated brest,
And let my fancy take her wonted rest.
Cupid abroad was lated in the night:
His wings were wet with ranging in the raine:
Harbour he sought, to me he tooke his flight,
To drie his plumes: I heard the boy complaine,
My doore I oped to grant him his desire,
And rose my selfe to make the Wagge a fire.
His wings were wet with ranging in the raine:
Harbour he sought, to me he tooke his flight,
To drie his plumes: I heard the boy complaine,
My doore I oped to grant him his desire,
And rose my selfe to make the Wagge a fire.
244
Looking more narrow by the fires flame,
I spyed his quiuer hanging at his backe:
I fear'd the child might my misfortune frame,
I would haue for feare of further wracke;
And what I drad (poore man) did me betide,
For foorth he drew an arrow from his side.
I spyed his quiuer hanging at his backe:
I fear'd the child might my misfortune frame,
I would haue for feare of further wracke;
And what I drad (poore man) did me betide,
For foorth he drew an arrow from his side.
He pierst the quicke that I began to start,
The wound was sweete, but that it was too hie,
And yet the pleasure had a pleasing smart:
This done, he flyes away, his wings were drie,
But left his arrow still within my brest,
That now I greeue, I welcom'd such a ghest.
The wound was sweete, but that it was too hie,
And yet the pleasure had a pleasing smart:
This done, he flyes away, his wings were drie,
But left his arrow still within my brest,
That now I greeue, I welcom'd such a ghest.
| The plays & poems of Robert Greene | |