From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings. Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay, In Pelion's shadow, ourgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, -as you now Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth, And of Heaven, and the Giant wars, And Love and Death and Birth. And then I changed my pipings, Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasped a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. All wept-as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood- At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. A Hymn to Pan Percy Shelley 1820

So we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears it's sheath, And the soul wear out it's breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns to soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving, By the light of the moon. So We'll Go No More A Roving Lord Byron 1817

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul; see, where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again! Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sacked; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colors on my pluméd crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel. And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appeared to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azured arms; And none but thou shall be my paramour. Was This The Face From The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus Christopher Marlowe

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, Gods and men and beasts have birth, Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child Proserpine. If with mists of evening dew Thou dost nourish these young flowers Till they grow in scent and hue Fairesr children of the Hours, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child Proserpine. Song of Proserpine Percy Shelly 1820

You don't sit there anymore, What's left? A soiled wall next to a door Traces left behind for me; For you again I shall not see; Until it comes to be the day, To which the ferryman I'll pay, My token fare; And you'll be there; To greet me, free without a care. To My Dog Zephyr Who Has Flown From Me Too Soon. Medea Ariadne 2000

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound Whilst we greet All this ground With his honor and his name That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honored. Daffadillies, Roses, pinks and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honored, ever young! Thus great Pan is ever sung. To Pan John Fletcher

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountaintops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea. Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art: Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. Orpheus With His Lute John Fletcher

Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses, Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows: Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin- All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes. She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee? What shall alas! become of me? Cupid And My Campaspe Played John Lyly

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