From the Fourteenth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses

The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;
Of all the Virgins of the sylvan train,
None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
Or more improv'd the vegetable care.
To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field,
The streams and fountains, no delights could yield;
'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.
The hook she bore, instead of Cynthia's spear,
To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,
To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,

From the Ninth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses

She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs,
When the fair Consort of her son replies.
Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan,
And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own;
Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate.
No Nymph of all Oechalia could compare
For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,
Her tender mother's only hope and pride,
(Myself the offspring of a second bride.)
This Nymph compress'd by him who rules the day,

A Triple Roundel

I

Your yen two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit thourghout my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde while that hit is grene,
Your yen [two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene].

Upon my trouthe I sey you feithfully
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene,
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.

You restless cares, companions of the night,
That wrap my joys in folds of endless woes,
Tire on my heart, and wound it with your spite,
Since Love and Fortune prove my equal foes:
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;
Welcome sweet grief, the subject of my lays.

Mourn heavens, mourn earth; your shepherd is forlorn;
Mourn times and hours, since bale invades my bower;
Curse every tongue the place where I was born,
Curse every thought the life which makes me lour:
Farewell my hopes, farewell my happy days;

When tender ewes, brought home with evening sun,
Wend to their folds,
And to their holds
The shepherds trudge when light of day is done,
Upon a tree
The eagle, Jove's fair bird, did perch;
There resteth he:
A Little fly his harbour then did search,
And did presume, though others laughed therat,
To perch whereas the princely eagle sat.

The eagle frown'd, and shook his royal wings,
And charg'd the fly
From thence to hie:
Afraid, in haste, the little creature flings
Yet seeks again,
Fearful, to perk him by the eagle's side:

What thing is Love? It is a power divine
That reigns in us, or else a wreakful law
That dooms our minds to beauty to incline:
It is a star, whose influence doth draw
Our heart to Love, dissembling of his might
Till he be master of our hearts and sight.

Love is a discord, and a strange divorce
Betwixt our sense and reason, by whose power,
As mad with reason, we admit that force
Which wit or labour never may devour:
It is a will that brooketh no consent;
It would refuse, yet never may repent.

What are my sheep without their wonted food?
What is my life except I gain my love?
My sheep consume and faint for want of blood,
My life is lost unless I grace approve:
No flower that sapless thrives,
No turtle without fere.

The day without the sun doth lour for woe,
Then woe mine eyes, unless they beauty see;
My sun Samela's eyes, by whom I know
Wherein delight consists, where pleasures be:
Nought more the heart revives
Than to embrace his dear.

The stars from earthly humors gain their light,

Tune on, my pipe, the praises of my love,
And, midst thy oaten harmony, recount
How fair she is that makes thy music mount,
And every string of thy heart's harp to move.

Shall I compare her form unto the sphere
Whence sun-bright Venus vaunts her silver shine?
Ah, more than that, by just compare, is thine,
Whose crystal looks the cloudy heavens do clear!

How oft have I descending Titan seen
His burning locks couch in the sea-queen's lap,
And beauteous Thetis his red body wrap
In watery robes, as he her lord had been!

Too weak the wit, too slender is the brain,
That means to mark the power and worth of love;
Not one that lives, except he hap to prove,
Can tell the sweet, or tell the secret pain.

Yet I that have been 'prentice to the grief,
Like to the cunning sea-man, from afar,
By guess will take the beauty of that star,
Whose influence must yield me chief relief.

You censors of the glory of my dear,
With reverence and lowly bent of knee,
Attend and mark what her perfections be;
For in my words my fancies shall appear.

Sit down, Carmela; here are cubs for kings,
Sloe's black as jet, or like my Christmas shoes,
Sweet cider which my leathern bottle brings;
Sit down, Carmela, let me kiss thy toes. CARMELA

Ah, Doron! ah, my heart! thou art as white
As is my mother's calf or brinded cow;
Thine eyes are like the glow-worms in the night;
Thine hairs resemble thickest of the snow.

The lines within thy face are deep and clear,
Like to the furrows of my father's wain;
The sweat upon thy face doth oft appear
Like to my mother's fat and kitchin gain.