A free and wild expresession of the soul.




The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

by Christopher Marlowe 1599

by Christopher Marlowe 1599

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields
Woods or steepy 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 flower, 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 shepherds' 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.

Come live with me and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove 

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields 

Woods or steepy 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 flower, 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 shepherds' 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.




The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

by Sir Walter Raleigh 1600

by Sir Walter Raleigh 1600

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 complain 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.

 

Thy 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 move 

To live with thee and be thy love.

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 complain 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.

 

Thy 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 move
To live with thee and be thy love.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

by Christopher Marlowe 1599

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields
Woods or steepy 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 flower, 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 shepherds' 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.

Come live with me and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove 

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields 

Woods or steepy 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 flower, 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 shepherds' 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.

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

by Sir Walter Raleigh 1600

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 complain 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.

 

Thy 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 move 

To live with thee and be thy love.