I
Crabbèd Age and Youth
(?William Shakespeare)

Crabbèd Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O, my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee:
O, sweet shepherd, hie thee!
For methinks thou stay'st too long.

II
Love is a Sickness
(Samuel Daniel)

LoveE 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?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries—
Heigh ho!

III
Tell me where is fancy bred
(William Shakespeare)

Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
Reply, reply!
It is engender’d in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle, where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy’s knell;
I’ll begin it – Ding, dong, bell.

IV
Capriccio
(Thomas Lodge)

Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight
And makes a pillow of my knee
The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin.
Alas! What hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit you safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee!

 

V
Epilogue
(The Earl of Rochester)

All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
My love, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts and broken vows;
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heaven allows.