SAMUEL DANIEL

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?

More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries Heigh hot

��122 Ulysses and the Siren

Stten. ^"^OME, worthy Greek' Ulysses, come, V_> Possess these shores with me The winds and seas aie troublesome,

And here we may be free. Here may we bit and view their toil

That travail in the deep, And joy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were

To be attained with ease, Then would I come and rest me there,

And leave such toils as these. But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

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