HENRY CONSTABLE

15627-1613?

1 10. On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney IVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries,

If they, importune, interrupt thy song, Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies. Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes, That since I saw thee now it is so long, And yet the tears that unto thee belong To thee as yet they did not sacrifice. I did not know that thou wert dead before ; I did not feel the grief I did sustain ; The greater stroke astonisheth the more ; Astonishment takes from us sense of pain ; I stood amazed when others' tears begun, And now begin to weep when they have done.

SAMUEL DANIEL

///. Love is a Sickness

T OVE is a sickness full of woes, ^ All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;

If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries

Heigh ho !

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so?

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