p.s. and a return to poetry friday

p.s. Maggie May asked, regarding the poll, if there was something she had missed. No, I know nothing of the tenure decision yet. Just planning escape routes in the meantime. Thanks to everyone who did the poll! Votes can still be tallied and results are in the pie chart on the sidebar. Bartender/poet/novelist and Alpaca farmer are closely tied, so I figure I can raise llamas, write poems and novels, AND tend bar. The trick is figuring out how to do all four in Manhattan, my city of choice, though going pastoral is always an option.

Speaking of which, the lack of poetry around here on Fridays is a pitiful thing that needs to be remedied right now. Some Kit Marlowe for you and the lovely lovely The Someone--


The Passionate Shepherd to his Love

Come live with mee, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Vallies, groves, hills and fieldes,
Woods, or steepie mountaine yeeldes.

And wee will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Sheepheards feede theyr flocks,
By shallow Rivers, to whose falls,
Melodious byrds sing Madrigalls.
And I will make thee beds of Roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Imbroydred all with leaves of Mirtle.
A gowne made of the finest wooll,
Which from our pretty Lambes we pull,

Fayre lined slippers for the cold:
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw, and Ivie buds,
With Corall clasps and Amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with mee, and be my love.
The Sheepheards Swaines shall daunce and sing,
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy minde may move;
Then live with mee, and be my love.