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EROS The sense of the world is short,—Long and various the report,—To love and be beloved;Men and gods have not outlearned it;And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,'Tis not to be improved. Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] "NOW WHAT IS LOVE" "NOW WHAT IS LOVE" Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?It is that fountain and that wellWhere pleasure and repentance dwell;It is, perhaps, the sauncing bellThat tolls all into heaven or hell;And this is Love, as I hear tell. Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?It is a work on holiday,It is December matched with May,When lusty bloods in fresh arrayHear ten months after of the play;And this is Love, as I hear say. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?It is a sunshine mixed with rain,It is a toothache or like pain,It is a game where none hath gain;The lass saith no, yet would full fain;And this is Love, as I hear sain. Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?It is a yes, it is a nay,A pretty kind of sporting fray,It is a thing will soon away.Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may;And this is Love, as I hear say. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show?A thing that creeps, it cannot go,A prize that passeth to and fro,A thing for one, a thing for moe,And he that proves shall find it so;And shepherd, this is Love, I trow. Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618] WOOING SONG From "Christ's Victory" Love is the blossom where there blowsEvery thing that lives or grows:Love doth make the Heavens to move,And the Sun doth burn in love:Love the strong and weak doth yoke,And makes the ivy climb the oak,Under whose shadows lions wild,Softened by love, grow tame and mild:Love no medicine can appease,He burns fishes in the seas:Not all the skill his wounds can stench,Not all the sea his fire can quench.Love did make the bloody spearOnce a leavy coat to wear,While in his leaves there shrouded laySweet birds, for love that sing and playAnd of all love's joyful flameI the bud and blossom am.Only bend thy knee to me,Thy wooing shall thy winning be! See, see the flowers that belowNow as fresh as morning blow;And of all the virgin roseThat as bright Aurora shows;How they all unleaved die,Losing their virginity!Like unto a summer shade,But now born, and now they fade.Every thing doth pass away;There is danger in delay:Come, come, gather then the rose,Gather it, or it you lose!All the sand of Tagus' shoreInto my bosom casts his ore:All the valleys' swimming cornTo my house is yearly borne:Every grape of every vineIs gladly bruised to make me wine:While ten thousand kings, as proud,To carry up my train have bowed,And a world of ladies send meIn my chambers to attend me:All the stars in Heaven that shine,And ten thousand more, are mine:Only bend thy knee to me,Thy wooing shall thy winning be. Giles Fletcher [1549?-1611] ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL From "Rosalind" Love in my bosom like a beeDoth suck his sweet:Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet....