FromAdd. MS.22601.CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives,Drawing a happy yoke without debate;A playfellow that far off all grief drives;A steward, early that provides and late:Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty,Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.FromFolly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes, 1667.Of Love.CUPID[3]is an idle toy,Never was there such a boy:If there were, let any showOr his quiver or his bow,Or the wound by him he gotBy a broken arrow shot.Money, Money, Moneymakes men bow;That's the only Cupid now.Whilst the world continued good,And men loved for flesh and blood,Men about them wore a dartWhich did win a woman's heart;And the women, great and small,With a certain thing they callKiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, caught the men:This was th' only Cupid then.FromHarl. MS.6917, fol. 87.WHEN[4]I do love I wish to taste the fruit,And to attain to what my hopes aspire;Refusal's better than a lingering suit,Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:And in most desperate case doth he remainThat's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;Hope promises, enjoying is content;Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.FromThomas Campion'sFourth Book of Airs(circ. 1617).BEAUTY,[5]since you so much desireTo know the place of Cupid's fire,About you somewhere doth it rest,Yet never harbour'd in your breast,Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:What fool would seek love's flame so low?But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.Think not when Cupid most you scornMen judge that you of ice were born;For, though you cast love at your heel,His fury yet sometime you feel:And whereabouts if you would know,I tell you still not in your toe:But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,That I may tell thee how I love;And how I've suffer'd every daySince thou hast stol'n my heart away;How many nights I've lain awakeAnd sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.This, Phillis, this shall be our talkWhilst hand in hand we gently walk;Then down we'll sit in yonder shadeA myrtle has for lovers made;And when I've called thee duck and dear,And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,If love, or pity on thy swain,Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,Then like two billing turtles weWill do what none but Love shall see.FromVinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company, 1687.CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,And then ask'd why I did so;Love like mine can ill dissemble:—Chloris 'tis for love of you,For those pretty tempting gracesOf your smiling lips and eyes,For those pressing close embracesWhen your snowy breasts do rise;For those joys of which the trialOnly can instruct your heartWhat you lose by your denial,When Love draws his pleasing dart;For those kisses in perfectionWhich a wanton soul like mine,Form'd by Cupid's own direction,Could infuse too into thine;For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,And a thousand charming things,For which monarchs might implore youTo beget a race of kings;And for which I fain would whisper,But my heart is still afraid,—Yet 'tis that young ladies wish forEvery night they go to bed.FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.DOWN[6]in a garden sat my dearest love,Her skin more soft than down of swan,More tender-hearted than the turtle doveAnd far more kind than bleeding pelican.I courted her; she rose and blushing said,"Why was I born to live and die a maid?"With that I plucked a pretty marigold,Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:"Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,Yet will they open when they see the sun.""What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;"I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:"Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"With that she changed her colour and grew wan."Since that this riddle you so well unfold,Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."Rawlinson Poetry MS., 117, fol. 144.DUNCES in love, how long shall weBe poring on our A. B. C.?For such are kisses, which tormentRather than give my self-content;Letters from which you scarce will proveThe wisest scholars can spell love.What though the lily of your handOr coral lip I may command?It is but like him up to th' chinWhose mouth can touch but take not in.FromSportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment, 1656.HARK,[7]my Flora! Love doth call usTo that strife that must befall us.He has robb'd his mother's myrtlesAnd hath pull'd her downy turtles.See, our genial posts are crown'd,And our beds like billows rise;Softer[8]combat's nowhere found,And who loses wins the prize.Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.Fear not any can surprise us,Love himself doth now disguise us.From thy waist the girdle throw:Night and darkness both dwell here:Words or actions who can know,Where there's neither eye nor ear?Shew thy bosom and then hide it;License touching and then chide it;Give a grant and then forbear it,Offer something and forswear it;Ask where all our shame is gone;Call us wicked wanton men;Do as turtles, kiss and groan;Say[9]"We ne'er shall meet again."I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;Easy riches is no treasure;She that's willing spoils the pleasure.Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10]fight;Pull and struggle whilst[11]ye twine;Let me use my force to-night,The next conquest shall be thine.FromDavison'sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602.Madrigal.MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For winter, spring, and summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on;But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,And like the sea about it I;Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;Like the kind Ocean I will be,With loving arms for ever clasping thee;But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than soAs their fresh banks soft rivers do;Nor shall the proudest planet boast a powerOf making my full love to ebb an hour:It never dry or low can proveWhilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bearAs if like doves w' engender'd there;No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,In love there's none too much an epicure.Nought shall my hands or lips control;I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,Night that's both blind and silent too.Alpheus found not a more secret traceHis loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,Creeping so far beneath the sea,Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,The pleasant thefts of love do hide.That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from meA more infallible security;For there's no danger I should tellThe joys which are to me unspeakable.FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.HE that intends to woo a maidWith youthful heat, must shun the shade.When Flora's gardens are i' th' primeLet him and her pluckMayandTime:[12]There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,Let them two both kiss and fling,Till summer's fairest carpet spreadYields them a green and pleasant bed:If lovers there would strive together,Chastity would not weigh one feather.FromJohn Attey'sFirst Book of Airs, 1622.MY days, my months, my yearsI spend about a moment's gain,A joy that in th' enjoying ends,A fury quickly slain;A frail delight, like that wasp's lifeWhich now both frisks and flies,And in a moment's wanton strifeIt faints, it pants, it dies.And when I charge, my lance in rest,I triumph in delight,And when I have the ring transpiercedI languish in despite;Or like one in a lukewarm bath,Light-wounded in a vein,Spurts out the spirits of his lifeAnd fainteth without pain.FromRobert Jones'First Book of Airs, 1601.MY mistress sings no other song,But still complains I did her wrong;Believe her not, it was not so,I did but kiss her and let her go.And now she swears I did,—but what?Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.And yet I will, it is so sweetAs teehee tahha when lovers meet.But women's words they are heedless,To tell you more it is needless;I ran and caught her by the arm,And then I kissed her,—this was no harm.But she, alas! is angry still,Which sheweth but a woman's will:She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.Yet sure her looks bewrays content,And cunningly her brawls[13]are meant,As lovers use to play and sportWhen time and leisure is too-too short.FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.To his Mistress desirous to go to Bed.SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I seeMorpheus is fallen in love with thee;Morpheus, my worst of rivals, triesTo draw the curtains of thine eyes,And fans them with his wing asleep;Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.How prettily his feathers blowThose fleshy shuttings to and fro!O how he makes me TantaliseWith those fair apples of thine eyes!Equivocates and cheats me still,Opening and shutting at his will,Now both, now one! the doting godPlays with thine eyes at even or odd.My stammering tongue doubts which it mightBid thee, good-morrow or good-night.So thy eyes twinkle brighter farThan the bright trembling evening star;So a wax taper, burnt withinThe socket, plays at out and in.Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,Meaning there all night to lie:Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!The eye, their bed and coverlid.Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.Make me thy maiden chamber-man,Or let me be thy warming-pan.O that I might but lay my headAt thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,As my dear Julia did the other night.Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to seeWhat gave the world a greater light than she;But angry soon she disappear'd and fledInto her inner rooms, and so to bed.I envied not Endymion's joys that night:Far greater had I with her lustre-light.FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.AFTER long service and a thousand vows,To her glad lover she more kindness shows.Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'dWhen the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;And many a time had given her a green gown,And oft he kissed her when he had her down;With sighs and motions he to her made knownWhat fain he would have done: then with a frownShe would forbid him, till the minute cameThat she no longer could conceal her flame.The am'rous shepherd, forward to espyLove's yielding motions triumph in her eye,With eager transport straight himself addrestTo taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:When with resistance, and a seeming flight,As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,Unto a place where flowers thicker grewOut of his arms as swift as air she flew:Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as sheWhen from the god[14]she fled and turn'd t' a tree.The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,Since she intended to be overta'en.He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ballTo stay her flight, for she herself did fall,Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she layTo gain more breath that she might lose't in play.She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threwWhen he addressed to crop a flower too.Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.At length o'ercome she suffers with a sighHer ravish'd lover use his victory,And gave him leave to punish her delayWith double vigour in the am'rous play;But then, alas! soon ended the delight;For too much love had hastened[15]its flight,Andeveryravish'd sense too soon awake,Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:Which left the lovers in a state to proveLong were the pains but short the joys of love.FromMS. Rawlinson Poet.94. fol. 192.The[16]Resolution.NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;I'll swear you most unjustly frown.I only asked (in vain) to tasteWhat you denied with mighty haste;I asked—but I'm ashamed to tellWhat 'twas you took so wondrous ill—A kiss. But with a coy disdainYou view'd my sighings and my pain;'Twas but a civil small request,Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"Put case[17]that I had loosed your gown,And then by force had laid you down,And with unruly hands had teased you,—Too justly then I had displeased you.Or had I (big with wanton joys)Engaged you for a brace of boys,Then basely left you full of nature,—This would have been provoking matter.But I, poor harmless civil I,Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,And saw denial in your eye;For with a squeamish glance you cried"I hate the nauseous bliss.""'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."FromCaptain Wm. Hicks'Oxford Drollery, 1671.A[18]new Song, to the New Jig-tune.WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,Your will, sir?I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,Do so still, sir.I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?But what, sir?Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?Let me ha't, sir.I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?But where, sir?To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?Why there, sir?I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?But when, sir?Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,Nor then, sir.I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?How much, sir?Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;Not a touch, sir.I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?But why, sir?'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?'Tis a lie, sir.I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?Are you sure on't?'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?There's no cure on't.Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,My true Love.I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,To a new love.FromFolly in Print, 1667.A Song in Dialogue.Strephon.DEAR, I must do.Phillis.O I dare not.Strephon.'Twill not hurt you.Phillis.No, I care not.Strephon.Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.Phillis.Will you marry?Strephon.Yes, to-morrow.Phillis.Till then tarry.Strephon.I would borrow.Phillis.Fruit is best when gathered in season.FromThe Windsor Drollery, 1672.(After Anacreon.)[19]UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,On flowery beds supinely laid,With odorous oils my head o'erflowingAnd around it roses growing,What should I do but drink awayThe heat and troubles of the day?In this more than kingly state,Love himself shall on me wait:Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,And mingled cast into the cupWit and mirth, and noble fires,Vigorous health, and gay desires.The wheel of life no less will stayIn a smooth than rugged way;Since it equally doth flee,Let the motion pleasant be.Why do we precious ointments shower,Nobler wines why do we pour,Beauteous flowers why do we spreadUpon the monuments of the dead?Nothing they but dust can showOr bones that hasten to be so.Crown me with roses while I live,Now your wines and ointments give:After death I nothing crave,Let me alive my pleasures have:All are stoics in the grave.FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.On his Black Mistress.THINE'S fair, facetious,[20]all that canDelight the airy part of man:My love is black, thou sayst, her eyeHath something of severity.Therefore I love: her spring will lastWhen all thy flowers are dead and blastShe's wisely framed, with art is made;Your best night-pieces have most shade.And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mineYields not as great a warmth as thine?Her heat is inward, and she mayMore pleasant be another way:They're slow to yield, but, when they do,You have both soul and body too.The quicker eye and nimble tongueLeaves footsteps for suspicion;But in her looks and language liesA very charm for Argus' eyes.Now pray then tell me, and withalPray be not too-too partial,Doth not one feature[21]now in mineAppear more lovely than all thine?No airy objects will me[22]move,It is the sober black I love:I love't so well that I protestI love the blackest parts the best.FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.Two Kisses.ONCE and no more: so said my life,When in my arms inchainedShe unto mine her lips did move,And so my heart she gained.Thus done, she saith, "Away I mustFor fear of being missed;Your heart's made over but in trust;"And so again she kissed.FromRawlinson MS. Poet.199.On Mrs. Beata Poole with Black Eyes.IF shadows be the picture's excellenceAnd make it seem more lively to the sense;If stars in the bright day do lose their lightAnd shine more glorious in the masque of night,Why should you think, fair creature, that you lackPerfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?Or that your beauty that so far exceedsThe new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?Or is it fit that nature should have madeSo bright a sun to shine without a shade?It seems that nature, when she first did fancyYour rare composure, studied necromancy;And when to you those gifts she did impart,She studied altogether the black art.She drew the magic circle of your eyes,And made the chain where, in your hair, she tiesRebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,Twining Meander-like to either sphere,Mysterious figures are; and when you list,Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.O if in magic you have skill so far,Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'dOn outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.As by the spring-head we may often knowThe nature of the streams that run below,So your black hair and eyes do give directionTo make me think the rest of like perfection,—The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,That world-dividing gulf where whoso ventersWith swelling sails and ravish'd senses entersInto a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,If my rude muse doth seem here to displaySecrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpastIn praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.A rover in the mark his arrows sticksSometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.And if I could direct my shaft aright,The black mark would I hit and miss the white.FromChoice Drollery, 1656.Black eyes and enticing frowns.[23]To Lucina.BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lieMy ill or happy destiny.If with clear looks you me behold,You give me treasures full of gold;If you dart forth disdainful rays,To your own dye you turn my days.That lamp which all the stars doth blindTo modest Cynthia is less kind,Though you do wear, to make you bright,No other dress than that of night.He glitters only in the day;You in the dark your beams display.The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,At some dark corner watching lies;So that heart-robbing God doth standIn those black gems, with shaft in hand,To rifle me of what I holdMore precious far than Indian gold.Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,Who in your circles strictly priesWill find that Cupid with his dartIn you doth practise the black art;And by those spells I am possest,Tries his conclusions in my breast.Though from those objects frowns arise,Some kind of frowns become black eyes,As pointed diamonds being setCast greater lustre out of jet.Those pieces we esteem most rare,Which in night-shadows postured are.Darkness in churches congregates the sight;Devotion strays in open daring light.FromRobert Jones'Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.METHOUGHT[24]the other nightI saw a pretty sightThat pleased me much;A fair and comely maid,Not squeamish nor afraidTo let me touch,Our lips most sweetly kissing,Each other never missing;Her smiling looks did show contentAnd that she did but what she meant.And as her lips did moveThe echo still was love,"Love, love me, sweet!"Then with a maiden blush,Instead of crying "Push!"[25]Our lips did meet:With music sweetly sounding,With pleasures all abounding,We kept the burthen of the song,Which was that love should take no wrong.And yet, as maidens use,She seemed to refuseThe name of love,Until I did protestThat I did love her best,And so will prove:With that, as both amazed,Each at the other gazed,My eyes did see, my hands did feel,Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.O when I felt her breastWhere love did rest,My love was suchI could have been contentMy best blood to have spentIn that sweet touch:But now comes that which vext us,There was a bar betwixt us,A bar that barred me from that partWhere nature did contend with art.If ever love had powerTo send one happy hour,Then show thy might,And take such bars awayWhich are the only stayOf love's delight.All this was but a dreaming,Although another meaning.Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;I will love you, you may love me.FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.AS I traversed to and fro,And in the fields was walking,I chanced to hear two sistersThat secretly were talking.The younger to the elder said,Prithee why do'st not marry?In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to theeI mean not long to tarry.When I was fifteen years of ageThen I had suitors many,But I, a wanton peevish wench,Would not sport with any;Till at the last, I sleeping fast,Cupid came to woo me,And like a lad that was stark madHe swore he would come to me.And then he lay down by my sideAnd spread his arms upon me,And I being 'twixt sleep and wakeDid strive to thrust him from me,But he with all the power he hadDid lie the harder on me.And then he did so play with meAs I was play'd with never;The wanton boy so pleased me,I would have slept for ever.And then methought the world turn'd roundAnd Phœbus fell a-skipping,And all the nymphs and goddessesAbout us two were tripping.Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'dHis Ocean streams upon us,But Boreas with his blust'ring blastsDid strive to keep him from us.Limping Vulcan he cameAs if he had been jealous,Venus follow'd after himAnd swore she'd blow the bellows.Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,And swore he would him smother:Quoth Cupid, Said I so to theeWhen thou lay'st with my mother?Juno, then, and JupiterCame marching with Apollo;Pan came in with Mercury,And then began the hollo;Cupid ran and hid himself,And so of joys bereft me:For suddenly I did awake,And all these fancies left me.FromSongs and Poems of Love and Drollery. By T. W.[26]1654.To Sylvia frowning.NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,Shall make my sadder verse complainOr my well kindled fame abate:Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,But one resolved like mine can make them start.Contract thy brow, and let thine eyeDart thunderbolts of anger still;Storm me with all th' artillery,With which Love's rebels use to kill:I'll not retreat till I or conqueror beOr martyr of thy cruelty and thee.Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not tillThy magazine of anger's spent:If I survive and love thee still,I know thou then must needs relent:Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercomeA tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.But if I fall unto[27]thy hateAnd stubborn scorn a sacrifice,I shall be happy in that fateWhilst with me all my torment dies:Thus shall my constancy for thy disdainEither begin my bliss or end my pain.FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.I[28]DREAM'D we both were in a bedOf roses almost smothered;But when I heard thy sweet breath say"Faults done by night will blush by day,"I kiss'd thee panting, and I callThe night to record that was all.But ah, if empty dreams so please,Love give me more such nights as these.FromThe Westminster Drollery, 1671.CHLORIS, when I to thee presentThe cause of all my discontent;And show that all the wealth that canFlow from this little world of manIs nought but constancy and love,Why will you other objects prove?O do not cozen your desiresWith common and mechanic fires:That picture which you see in goldIn every shop is to be sold:And diamonds of richest priceMen only value with their eyes.But look upon my loyal heartThat knows to value every part,And loves thy hidden virtue moreThan outward shape, which fools adore:In that you'll all the treasures findThat can content a noble mind.FromThe Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, 1658.Cupid Contemned.CUPID, thou art a sluggish boyAnd dost neglect thy calling;Thy bow and arrows are a toy;Thy monarchy is falling.Unless thou dost recall thy selfAnd take thy tools about thee,Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,And all the world will flout thee.Rouse up thy spirit like a god,And play the archer finely,Let none escape thy shaft or rod'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:So mayst thou chance to plague that heartThat cruelly hath made me smart.FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.DO[29]not ask me, charming Phillis,Why I lead you here aloneBy this bank of pinks and liliesAnd of roses newly blown.'Tis not to behold the beautyOf those flowers that crown the spring,'Tis to—but I know my dutyAnd dare never name the thing.'Tis at worst but her denying:Why should I thus fearful be?Every minute, gently flying,Smiles and says "Make use of me."What the sun does to those rosesWhile the beams play sweetly in,I would—but my fear opposesAnd I dare not name the thing.Yet I die if I conceal it:Ask my eyes, or ask your own,And if neither dare reveal it,Think what lovers think alone.On this bank of pinks and lilies,Might I speak what I would do,I would—with my lovely Phillis—I would—I would—ah, would you?FromWilliam Corkine'sAirs, 1610.HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!FromThe Marrow of Compliments, 1655.HER dainty palm I gently prestAnd with her lip I play'd;My cheek upon her panting breastAnd on her neck I laid:And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,Nor did we then mistrust.With pleasant toil we breathless grew,And kiss'd in warmer blood;Upon her lips the honey-dewLike drops on roses' stood:And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,Whose sweets were such to me.But kissing and embracing weSo long together lay,Her touches all inflamed meAnd I began to stray;My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,My tongue unwisely told.FromThomas Greaves'Songs, 1604.IPRAY thee, sweet John, away!I cannot tell how to love thee!""Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me.""O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:If this will not move thee, gentle John,Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.(Down a down!)"Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,This fooling I cannot abide;Leave off! or in faith I must chide.See now, faith, here are proper deeds:Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,Repentance follows with an after-clap.Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."(Down a down!)FromDr. John Wilson'sCheerful Airs or Ballads, 1660.ISWEAR[30]by muscadelThat I do love thee wellAnd more than I can tell;By the white claret and sackI do love thy Black, black, black.So lovely and so fair,O'ershadowed with thy hair,So nimble just like air:All these set me on love's wrackFor thy sweeter Black, black, black.No goddess 'mongst them allSo slender and so tall,And graceful too withal:Which makes my sinews to crackFor thy dainty Black, black, black.Thy kind and loving eye,When first I did espy,Our loves it did descry,Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,But I'm afraidThou'lt die a maidAnd so lead apes to[31]hell.For why,[32]my dear, 'tis pity it should be soThou'rt better than[33]To take a manAnd keep thee from the foe.Thou art so pretty and fine,And wondrous handsome too;Then be not coy,Let's get a boy:Alas! what should we do?I see thy brow,And well I knowWhat colour is below:Then do not jest,But smile the rest:I'faith I know what I know.FromSportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment, 1656.A Maiden's Denial.[34]NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speedYou mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wistSo much before, I would have shut you out.Is it a proper thing you go about?I did not think you would have used me this,But now I see I took my aim amiss.A little thing would make me not be friends:You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?If you go sweating down what will men think?Remember, sir, how you have used me now;Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.If any man but you had used me so,Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,And then at cards we better shall agree.FromSloane MS.1792. fol. 6.On Dreams.YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,That fly from brain to brain,And represent a world of thingsWith much ado and little pain:You visit ladies in their beds,And are most busy in their ease;You put such fancies in their headsThat make them think of what you please.How highly am I bound to you(Safe messengers of secrecy)That made my mistress think on meJust in the place where I would be!O that you would me once preferTo be in place of one of you,That I might go to visit herAnd she might swear her dream were true!FromThomas Campion'sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).SWEET, exclude me not, nor be dividedFrom him that ere long must bed thee;All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;Sure[35]we are and I must wed thee.Presume then yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,Pay their rent before the quarter;'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;Put me not then off with laughter:Consider then a little more,Here's the way to all my store.Why were doors in love's despite devised,Are not laws enough restraining?Women are most apt to be surprised,Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.Then grace me yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.FromThomas Jordan'sPoetical Varieties,[36]1637.A Dialogue betwixt Castadorus and Arabella in bed.Arabella.DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,Aurora 'gins to jeer me:She tells me I do wantonise.Castadorus.I prithee, sweet, lie near me.Let red Aurora blush, my dear,And Phœbus laughing follow;Thou only art Aurora here,Let me be thy Apollo.It is to envy at our blissThat they do rise before us:Is there such hurt in this or this?Arabella.Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!Castadorus.What, Arabella, can one nightOf wanton dalliance tire you?I could be ever if I might:One hour let me desire you.Arabella.Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!If you so roughly use me,What can I say or think of you.Castadorus.I prithee, Love, excuse me.Thy beauty and my love defendI should ungently move thee:'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:Is it not I that love thee?Arabella.I do confess it is, but then—Since you do so importuneThat I should once lie down again—Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.Aurora and Apollo, too,May visit silent fields;By my consent they ne'er shall knowThe bliss our pleasure yields.FromJohn Dowland'sThird Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.WHEN Phœbus first did Daphne love,And no means might her favour move,He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,"Is I have vowed virginity."Then in a rage he sware and said,Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.If maidens then shall chance be spedEre they can scarcely dress their head,Yet pardon them, for they be lothTo make God Phœbus break his oath:And better 'twere a child were bornThan that a God should be foresworn.In Wit's Interpreter, 1655, and other Miscellanies, a third stanza is given:—"Yet silly they, when all is done,Complain our wits their hearts have won,When 'tis for fear that they should beWith Daphne turn'd into a tree:And who would so herself abuseTo be a tree, if she could chuse?"
FromAdd. MS.22601.
CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives,Drawing a happy yoke without debate;A playfellow that far off all grief drives;A steward, early that provides and late:Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty,Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.
CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives,Drawing a happy yoke without debate;A playfellow that far off all grief drives;A steward, early that provides and late:Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty,Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.
FromFolly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes, 1667.Of Love.CUPID[3]is an idle toy,Never was there such a boy:If there were, let any showOr his quiver or his bow,Or the wound by him he gotBy a broken arrow shot.Money, Money, Moneymakes men bow;That's the only Cupid now.Whilst the world continued good,And men loved for flesh and blood,Men about them wore a dartWhich did win a woman's heart;And the women, great and small,With a certain thing they callKiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, caught the men:This was th' only Cupid then.
FromFolly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes, 1667.
Of Love.
CUPID[3]is an idle toy,Never was there such a boy:If there were, let any showOr his quiver or his bow,Or the wound by him he gotBy a broken arrow shot.Money, Money, Moneymakes men bow;That's the only Cupid now.Whilst the world continued good,And men loved for flesh and blood,Men about them wore a dartWhich did win a woman's heart;And the women, great and small,With a certain thing they callKiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, caught the men:This was th' only Cupid then.
CUPID[3]is an idle toy,Never was there such a boy:If there were, let any showOr his quiver or his bow,Or the wound by him he gotBy a broken arrow shot.Money, Money, Moneymakes men bow;That's the only Cupid now.Whilst the world continued good,And men loved for flesh and blood,Men about them wore a dartWhich did win a woman's heart;And the women, great and small,With a certain thing they callKiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, caught the men:This was th' only Cupid then.
FromHarl. MS.6917, fol. 87.WHEN[4]I do love I wish to taste the fruit,And to attain to what my hopes aspire;Refusal's better than a lingering suit,Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:And in most desperate case doth he remainThat's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;Hope promises, enjoying is content;Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.
FromHarl. MS.6917, fol. 87.
WHEN[4]I do love I wish to taste the fruit,And to attain to what my hopes aspire;Refusal's better than a lingering suit,Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:And in most desperate case doth he remainThat's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;Hope promises, enjoying is content;Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.
WHEN[4]I do love I wish to taste the fruit,And to attain to what my hopes aspire;Refusal's better than a lingering suit,Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:And in most desperate case doth he remainThat's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.
Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;Hope promises, enjoying is content;Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.
FromThomas Campion'sFourth Book of Airs(circ. 1617).BEAUTY,[5]since you so much desireTo know the place of Cupid's fire,About you somewhere doth it rest,Yet never harbour'd in your breast,Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:What fool would seek love's flame so low?But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.Think not when Cupid most you scornMen judge that you of ice were born;For, though you cast love at your heel,His fury yet sometime you feel:And whereabouts if you would know,I tell you still not in your toe:But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
FromThomas Campion'sFourth Book of Airs(circ. 1617).
BEAUTY,[5]since you so much desireTo know the place of Cupid's fire,About you somewhere doth it rest,Yet never harbour'd in your breast,Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:What fool would seek love's flame so low?But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.Think not when Cupid most you scornMen judge that you of ice were born;For, though you cast love at your heel,His fury yet sometime you feel:And whereabouts if you would know,I tell you still not in your toe:But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
BEAUTY,[5]since you so much desireTo know the place of Cupid's fire,About you somewhere doth it rest,Yet never harbour'd in your breast,Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:What fool would seek love's flame so low?But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
Think not when Cupid most you scornMen judge that you of ice were born;For, though you cast love at your heel,His fury yet sometime you feel:And whereabouts if you would know,I tell you still not in your toe:But a little higher, but a little higher,There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,That I may tell thee how I love;And how I've suffer'd every daySince thou hast stol'n my heart away;How many nights I've lain awakeAnd sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.This, Phillis, this shall be our talkWhilst hand in hand we gently walk;Then down we'll sit in yonder shadeA myrtle has for lovers made;And when I've called thee duck and dear,And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,If love, or pity on thy swain,Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,Then like two billing turtles weWill do what none but Love shall see.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.
COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,That I may tell thee how I love;And how I've suffer'd every daySince thou hast stol'n my heart away;How many nights I've lain awakeAnd sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.This, Phillis, this shall be our talkWhilst hand in hand we gently walk;Then down we'll sit in yonder shadeA myrtle has for lovers made;And when I've called thee duck and dear,And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,If love, or pity on thy swain,Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,Then like two billing turtles weWill do what none but Love shall see.
COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,That I may tell thee how I love;And how I've suffer'd every daySince thou hast stol'n my heart away;How many nights I've lain awakeAnd sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.This, Phillis, this shall be our talkWhilst hand in hand we gently walk;Then down we'll sit in yonder shadeA myrtle has for lovers made;And when I've called thee duck and dear,And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,If love, or pity on thy swain,Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,Then like two billing turtles weWill do what none but Love shall see.
FromVinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company, 1687.CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,And then ask'd why I did so;Love like mine can ill dissemble:—Chloris 'tis for love of you,For those pretty tempting gracesOf your smiling lips and eyes,For those pressing close embracesWhen your snowy breasts do rise;For those joys of which the trialOnly can instruct your heartWhat you lose by your denial,When Love draws his pleasing dart;For those kisses in perfectionWhich a wanton soul like mine,Form'd by Cupid's own direction,Could infuse too into thine;For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,And a thousand charming things,For which monarchs might implore youTo beget a race of kings;And for which I fain would whisper,But my heart is still afraid,—Yet 'tis that young ladies wish forEvery night they go to bed.
FromVinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company, 1687.
CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,And then ask'd why I did so;Love like mine can ill dissemble:—Chloris 'tis for love of you,For those pretty tempting gracesOf your smiling lips and eyes,For those pressing close embracesWhen your snowy breasts do rise;For those joys of which the trialOnly can instruct your heartWhat you lose by your denial,When Love draws his pleasing dart;For those kisses in perfectionWhich a wanton soul like mine,Form'd by Cupid's own direction,Could infuse too into thine;For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,And a thousand charming things,For which monarchs might implore youTo beget a race of kings;And for which I fain would whisper,But my heart is still afraid,—Yet 'tis that young ladies wish forEvery night they go to bed.
CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,And then ask'd why I did so;Love like mine can ill dissemble:—Chloris 'tis for love of you,For those pretty tempting gracesOf your smiling lips and eyes,For those pressing close embracesWhen your snowy breasts do rise;
For those joys of which the trialOnly can instruct your heartWhat you lose by your denial,When Love draws his pleasing dart;For those kisses in perfectionWhich a wanton soul like mine,Form'd by Cupid's own direction,Could infuse too into thine;
For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,And a thousand charming things,For which monarchs might implore youTo beget a race of kings;And for which I fain would whisper,But my heart is still afraid,—Yet 'tis that young ladies wish forEvery night they go to bed.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.DOWN[6]in a garden sat my dearest love,Her skin more soft than down of swan,More tender-hearted than the turtle doveAnd far more kind than bleeding pelican.I courted her; she rose and blushing said,"Why was I born to live and die a maid?"With that I plucked a pretty marigold,Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:"Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,Yet will they open when they see the sun.""What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;"I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:"Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"With that she changed her colour and grew wan."Since that this riddle you so well unfold,Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
DOWN[6]in a garden sat my dearest love,Her skin more soft than down of swan,More tender-hearted than the turtle doveAnd far more kind than bleeding pelican.I courted her; she rose and blushing said,"Why was I born to live and die a maid?"With that I plucked a pretty marigold,Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:"Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,Yet will they open when they see the sun.""What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;"I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:"Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"With that she changed her colour and grew wan."Since that this riddle you so well unfold,Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."
DOWN[6]in a garden sat my dearest love,Her skin more soft than down of swan,More tender-hearted than the turtle doveAnd far more kind than bleeding pelican.I courted her; she rose and blushing said,"Why was I born to live and die a maid?"With that I plucked a pretty marigold,Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:"Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,Yet will they open when they see the sun.""What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;"I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:"Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"With that she changed her colour and grew wan."Since that this riddle you so well unfold,Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."
Rawlinson Poetry MS., 117, fol. 144.DUNCES in love, how long shall weBe poring on our A. B. C.?For such are kisses, which tormentRather than give my self-content;Letters from which you scarce will proveThe wisest scholars can spell love.What though the lily of your handOr coral lip I may command?It is but like him up to th' chinWhose mouth can touch but take not in.
Rawlinson Poetry MS., 117, fol. 144.
DUNCES in love, how long shall weBe poring on our A. B. C.?For such are kisses, which tormentRather than give my self-content;Letters from which you scarce will proveThe wisest scholars can spell love.What though the lily of your handOr coral lip I may command?It is but like him up to th' chinWhose mouth can touch but take not in.
DUNCES in love, how long shall weBe poring on our A. B. C.?For such are kisses, which tormentRather than give my self-content;Letters from which you scarce will proveThe wisest scholars can spell love.What though the lily of your handOr coral lip I may command?It is but like him up to th' chinWhose mouth can touch but take not in.
FromSportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment, 1656.HARK,[7]my Flora! Love doth call usTo that strife that must befall us.He has robb'd his mother's myrtlesAnd hath pull'd her downy turtles.See, our genial posts are crown'd,And our beds like billows rise;Softer[8]combat's nowhere found,And who loses wins the prize.Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.Fear not any can surprise us,Love himself doth now disguise us.From thy waist the girdle throw:Night and darkness both dwell here:Words or actions who can know,Where there's neither eye nor ear?Shew thy bosom and then hide it;License touching and then chide it;Give a grant and then forbear it,Offer something and forswear it;Ask where all our shame is gone;Call us wicked wanton men;Do as turtles, kiss and groan;Say[9]"We ne'er shall meet again."I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;Easy riches is no treasure;She that's willing spoils the pleasure.Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10]fight;Pull and struggle whilst[11]ye twine;Let me use my force to-night,The next conquest shall be thine.
FromSportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment, 1656.
HARK,[7]my Flora! Love doth call usTo that strife that must befall us.He has robb'd his mother's myrtlesAnd hath pull'd her downy turtles.See, our genial posts are crown'd,And our beds like billows rise;Softer[8]combat's nowhere found,And who loses wins the prize.Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.Fear not any can surprise us,Love himself doth now disguise us.From thy waist the girdle throw:Night and darkness both dwell here:Words or actions who can know,Where there's neither eye nor ear?Shew thy bosom and then hide it;License touching and then chide it;Give a grant and then forbear it,Offer something and forswear it;Ask where all our shame is gone;Call us wicked wanton men;Do as turtles, kiss and groan;Say[9]"We ne'er shall meet again."I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;Easy riches is no treasure;She that's willing spoils the pleasure.Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10]fight;Pull and struggle whilst[11]ye twine;Let me use my force to-night,The next conquest shall be thine.
HARK,[7]my Flora! Love doth call usTo that strife that must befall us.He has robb'd his mother's myrtlesAnd hath pull'd her downy turtles.See, our genial posts are crown'd,And our beds like billows rise;Softer[8]combat's nowhere found,And who loses wins the prize.
Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.Fear not any can surprise us,Love himself doth now disguise us.From thy waist the girdle throw:Night and darkness both dwell here:Words or actions who can know,Where there's neither eye nor ear?
Shew thy bosom and then hide it;License touching and then chide it;Give a grant and then forbear it,Offer something and forswear it;Ask where all our shame is gone;Call us wicked wanton men;Do as turtles, kiss and groan;Say[9]"We ne'er shall meet again."
I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;Easy riches is no treasure;She that's willing spoils the pleasure.Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10]fight;Pull and struggle whilst[11]ye twine;Let me use my force to-night,The next conquest shall be thine.
FromDavison'sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602.Madrigal.MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For winter, spring, and summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on;But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
FromDavison'sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602.Madrigal.MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For winter, spring, and summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on;But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
FromDavison'sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602.
Madrigal.
MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For winter, spring, and summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on;But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For winter, spring, and summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on;But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,And like the sea about it I;Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;Like the kind Ocean I will be,With loving arms for ever clasping thee;But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than soAs their fresh banks soft rivers do;Nor shall the proudest planet boast a powerOf making my full love to ebb an hour:It never dry or low can proveWhilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bearAs if like doves w' engender'd there;No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,In love there's none too much an epicure.Nought shall my hands or lips control;I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,Night that's both blind and silent too.Alpheus found not a more secret traceHis loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,Creeping so far beneath the sea,Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,The pleasant thefts of love do hide.That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from meA more infallible security;For there's no danger I should tellThe joys which are to me unspeakable.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,And like the sea about it I;Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;Like the kind Ocean I will be,With loving arms for ever clasping thee;But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than soAs their fresh banks soft rivers do;Nor shall the proudest planet boast a powerOf making my full love to ebb an hour:It never dry or low can proveWhilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bearAs if like doves w' engender'd there;No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,In love there's none too much an epicure.Nought shall my hands or lips control;I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,Night that's both blind and silent too.Alpheus found not a more secret traceHis loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,Creeping so far beneath the sea,Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,The pleasant thefts of love do hide.That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from meA more infallible security;For there's no danger I should tellThe joys which are to me unspeakable.
LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,And like the sea about it I;Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;Like the kind Ocean I will be,With loving arms for ever clasping thee;But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than soAs their fresh banks soft rivers do;Nor shall the proudest planet boast a powerOf making my full love to ebb an hour:It never dry or low can proveWhilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bearAs if like doves w' engender'd there;No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,In love there's none too much an epicure.Nought shall my hands or lips control;I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,Night that's both blind and silent too.
Alpheus found not a more secret traceHis loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,Creeping so far beneath the sea,Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,The pleasant thefts of love do hide.That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from meA more infallible security;For there's no danger I should tellThe joys which are to me unspeakable.
FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.HE that intends to woo a maidWith youthful heat, must shun the shade.When Flora's gardens are i' th' primeLet him and her pluckMayandTime:[12]There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,Let them two both kiss and fling,Till summer's fairest carpet spreadYields them a green and pleasant bed:If lovers there would strive together,Chastity would not weigh one feather.
FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.
HE that intends to woo a maidWith youthful heat, must shun the shade.When Flora's gardens are i' th' primeLet him and her pluckMayandTime:[12]There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,Let them two both kiss and fling,Till summer's fairest carpet spreadYields them a green and pleasant bed:If lovers there would strive together,Chastity would not weigh one feather.
HE that intends to woo a maidWith youthful heat, must shun the shade.When Flora's gardens are i' th' primeLet him and her pluckMayandTime:[12]There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,Let them two both kiss and fling,Till summer's fairest carpet spreadYields them a green and pleasant bed:If lovers there would strive together,Chastity would not weigh one feather.
FromJohn Attey'sFirst Book of Airs, 1622.MY days, my months, my yearsI spend about a moment's gain,A joy that in th' enjoying ends,A fury quickly slain;A frail delight, like that wasp's lifeWhich now both frisks and flies,And in a moment's wanton strifeIt faints, it pants, it dies.And when I charge, my lance in rest,I triumph in delight,And when I have the ring transpiercedI languish in despite;Or like one in a lukewarm bath,Light-wounded in a vein,Spurts out the spirits of his lifeAnd fainteth without pain.
FromJohn Attey'sFirst Book of Airs, 1622.
MY days, my months, my yearsI spend about a moment's gain,A joy that in th' enjoying ends,A fury quickly slain;A frail delight, like that wasp's lifeWhich now both frisks and flies,And in a moment's wanton strifeIt faints, it pants, it dies.And when I charge, my lance in rest,I triumph in delight,And when I have the ring transpiercedI languish in despite;Or like one in a lukewarm bath,Light-wounded in a vein,Spurts out the spirits of his lifeAnd fainteth without pain.
MY days, my months, my yearsI spend about a moment's gain,A joy that in th' enjoying ends,A fury quickly slain;
A frail delight, like that wasp's lifeWhich now both frisks and flies,And in a moment's wanton strifeIt faints, it pants, it dies.
And when I charge, my lance in rest,I triumph in delight,And when I have the ring transpiercedI languish in despite;
Or like one in a lukewarm bath,Light-wounded in a vein,Spurts out the spirits of his lifeAnd fainteth without pain.
FromRobert Jones'First Book of Airs, 1601.MY mistress sings no other song,But still complains I did her wrong;Believe her not, it was not so,I did but kiss her and let her go.And now she swears I did,—but what?Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.And yet I will, it is so sweetAs teehee tahha when lovers meet.But women's words they are heedless,To tell you more it is needless;I ran and caught her by the arm,And then I kissed her,—this was no harm.But she, alas! is angry still,Which sheweth but a woman's will:She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.Yet sure her looks bewrays content,And cunningly her brawls[13]are meant,As lovers use to play and sportWhen time and leisure is too-too short.
FromRobert Jones'First Book of Airs, 1601.
MY mistress sings no other song,But still complains I did her wrong;Believe her not, it was not so,I did but kiss her and let her go.And now she swears I did,—but what?Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.And yet I will, it is so sweetAs teehee tahha when lovers meet.But women's words they are heedless,To tell you more it is needless;I ran and caught her by the arm,And then I kissed her,—this was no harm.But she, alas! is angry still,Which sheweth but a woman's will:She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.Yet sure her looks bewrays content,And cunningly her brawls[13]are meant,As lovers use to play and sportWhen time and leisure is too-too short.
MY mistress sings no other song,But still complains I did her wrong;Believe her not, it was not so,I did but kiss her and let her go.
And now she swears I did,—but what?Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.And yet I will, it is so sweetAs teehee tahha when lovers meet.
But women's words they are heedless,To tell you more it is needless;I ran and caught her by the arm,And then I kissed her,—this was no harm.
But she, alas! is angry still,Which sheweth but a woman's will:She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.
Yet sure her looks bewrays content,And cunningly her brawls[13]are meant,As lovers use to play and sportWhen time and leisure is too-too short.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.To his Mistress desirous to go to Bed.SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I seeMorpheus is fallen in love with thee;Morpheus, my worst of rivals, triesTo draw the curtains of thine eyes,And fans them with his wing asleep;Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.How prettily his feathers blowThose fleshy shuttings to and fro!O how he makes me TantaliseWith those fair apples of thine eyes!Equivocates and cheats me still,Opening and shutting at his will,Now both, now one! the doting godPlays with thine eyes at even or odd.My stammering tongue doubts which it mightBid thee, good-morrow or good-night.So thy eyes twinkle brighter farThan the bright trembling evening star;So a wax taper, burnt withinThe socket, plays at out and in.Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,Meaning there all night to lie:Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!The eye, their bed and coverlid.Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.Make me thy maiden chamber-man,Or let me be thy warming-pan.O that I might but lay my headAt thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
To his Mistress desirous to go to Bed.
SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I seeMorpheus is fallen in love with thee;Morpheus, my worst of rivals, triesTo draw the curtains of thine eyes,And fans them with his wing asleep;Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.How prettily his feathers blowThose fleshy shuttings to and fro!O how he makes me TantaliseWith those fair apples of thine eyes!Equivocates and cheats me still,Opening and shutting at his will,Now both, now one! the doting godPlays with thine eyes at even or odd.My stammering tongue doubts which it mightBid thee, good-morrow or good-night.So thy eyes twinkle brighter farThan the bright trembling evening star;So a wax taper, burnt withinThe socket, plays at out and in.Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,Meaning there all night to lie:Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!The eye, their bed and coverlid.Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.Make me thy maiden chamber-man,Or let me be thy warming-pan.O that I might but lay my headAt thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.
SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I seeMorpheus is fallen in love with thee;Morpheus, my worst of rivals, triesTo draw the curtains of thine eyes,And fans them with his wing asleep;Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.How prettily his feathers blowThose fleshy shuttings to and fro!O how he makes me TantaliseWith those fair apples of thine eyes!Equivocates and cheats me still,Opening and shutting at his will,Now both, now one! the doting godPlays with thine eyes at even or odd.My stammering tongue doubts which it mightBid thee, good-morrow or good-night.So thy eyes twinkle brighter farThan the bright trembling evening star;So a wax taper, burnt withinThe socket, plays at out and in.
Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,Meaning there all night to lie:Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!The eye, their bed and coverlid.Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.Make me thy maiden chamber-man,Or let me be thy warming-pan.O that I might but lay my headAt thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,As my dear Julia did the other night.Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to seeWhat gave the world a greater light than she;But angry soon she disappear'd and fledInto her inner rooms, and so to bed.I envied not Endymion's joys that night:Far greater had I with her lustre-light.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.
SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,As my dear Julia did the other night.Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to seeWhat gave the world a greater light than she;But angry soon she disappear'd and fledInto her inner rooms, and so to bed.I envied not Endymion's joys that night:Far greater had I with her lustre-light.
SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,As my dear Julia did the other night.Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to seeWhat gave the world a greater light than she;But angry soon she disappear'd and fledInto her inner rooms, and so to bed.I envied not Endymion's joys that night:Far greater had I with her lustre-light.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.AFTER long service and a thousand vows,To her glad lover she more kindness shows.Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'dWhen the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;And many a time had given her a green gown,And oft he kissed her when he had her down;With sighs and motions he to her made knownWhat fain he would have done: then with a frownShe would forbid him, till the minute cameThat she no longer could conceal her flame.The am'rous shepherd, forward to espyLove's yielding motions triumph in her eye,With eager transport straight himself addrestTo taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:When with resistance, and a seeming flight,As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,Unto a place where flowers thicker grewOut of his arms as swift as air she flew:Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as sheWhen from the god[14]she fled and turn'd t' a tree.The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,Since she intended to be overta'en.He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ballTo stay her flight, for she herself did fall,Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she layTo gain more breath that she might lose't in play.She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threwWhen he addressed to crop a flower too.Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.At length o'ercome she suffers with a sighHer ravish'd lover use his victory,And gave him leave to punish her delayWith double vigour in the am'rous play;But then, alas! soon ended the delight;For too much love had hastened[15]its flight,Andeveryravish'd sense too soon awake,Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:Which left the lovers in a state to proveLong were the pains but short the joys of love.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.
AFTER long service and a thousand vows,To her glad lover she more kindness shows.Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'dWhen the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;And many a time had given her a green gown,And oft he kissed her when he had her down;With sighs and motions he to her made knownWhat fain he would have done: then with a frownShe would forbid him, till the minute cameThat she no longer could conceal her flame.The am'rous shepherd, forward to espyLove's yielding motions triumph in her eye,With eager transport straight himself addrestTo taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:When with resistance, and a seeming flight,As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,Unto a place where flowers thicker grewOut of his arms as swift as air she flew:Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as sheWhen from the god[14]she fled and turn'd t' a tree.The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,Since she intended to be overta'en.He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ballTo stay her flight, for she herself did fall,Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she layTo gain more breath that she might lose't in play.She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threwWhen he addressed to crop a flower too.Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.At length o'ercome she suffers with a sighHer ravish'd lover use his victory,And gave him leave to punish her delayWith double vigour in the am'rous play;But then, alas! soon ended the delight;For too much love had hastened[15]its flight,Andeveryravish'd sense too soon awake,Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:Which left the lovers in a state to proveLong were the pains but short the joys of love.
AFTER long service and a thousand vows,To her glad lover she more kindness shows.Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'dWhen the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;And many a time had given her a green gown,And oft he kissed her when he had her down;With sighs and motions he to her made knownWhat fain he would have done: then with a frownShe would forbid him, till the minute cameThat she no longer could conceal her flame.The am'rous shepherd, forward to espyLove's yielding motions triumph in her eye,With eager transport straight himself addrestTo taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:When with resistance, and a seeming flight,As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,Unto a place where flowers thicker grewOut of his arms as swift as air she flew:Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as sheWhen from the god[14]she fled and turn'd t' a tree.The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,Since she intended to be overta'en.He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ballTo stay her flight, for she herself did fall,Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she layTo gain more breath that she might lose't in play.She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threwWhen he addressed to crop a flower too.Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.At length o'ercome she suffers with a sighHer ravish'd lover use his victory,And gave him leave to punish her delayWith double vigour in the am'rous play;But then, alas! soon ended the delight;For too much love had hastened[15]its flight,Andeveryravish'd sense too soon awake,Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:Which left the lovers in a state to proveLong were the pains but short the joys of love.
FromMS. Rawlinson Poet.94. fol. 192.The[16]Resolution.NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;I'll swear you most unjustly frown.I only asked (in vain) to tasteWhat you denied with mighty haste;I asked—but I'm ashamed to tellWhat 'twas you took so wondrous ill—A kiss. But with a coy disdainYou view'd my sighings and my pain;'Twas but a civil small request,Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"Put case[17]that I had loosed your gown,And then by force had laid you down,And with unruly hands had teased you,—Too justly then I had displeased you.Or had I (big with wanton joys)Engaged you for a brace of boys,Then basely left you full of nature,—This would have been provoking matter.But I, poor harmless civil I,Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,And saw denial in your eye;For with a squeamish glance you cried"I hate the nauseous bliss.""'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
FromMS. Rawlinson Poet.94. fol. 192.
The[16]Resolution.
NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;I'll swear you most unjustly frown.I only asked (in vain) to tasteWhat you denied with mighty haste;I asked—but I'm ashamed to tellWhat 'twas you took so wondrous ill—A kiss. But with a coy disdainYou view'd my sighings and my pain;'Twas but a civil small request,Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"Put case[17]that I had loosed your gown,And then by force had laid you down,And with unruly hands had teased you,—Too justly then I had displeased you.Or had I (big with wanton joys)Engaged you for a brace of boys,Then basely left you full of nature,—This would have been provoking matter.But I, poor harmless civil I,Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,And saw denial in your eye;For with a squeamish glance you cried"I hate the nauseous bliss.""'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;I'll swear you most unjustly frown.I only asked (in vain) to tasteWhat you denied with mighty haste;I asked—but I'm ashamed to tellWhat 'twas you took so wondrous ill—A kiss. But with a coy disdainYou view'd my sighings and my pain;'Twas but a civil small request,Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"Put case[17]that I had loosed your gown,And then by force had laid you down,And with unruly hands had teased you,—Too justly then I had displeased you.Or had I (big with wanton joys)Engaged you for a brace of boys,Then basely left you full of nature,—This would have been provoking matter.But I, poor harmless civil I,Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,And saw denial in your eye;For with a squeamish glance you cried"I hate the nauseous bliss.""'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
FromCaptain Wm. Hicks'Oxford Drollery, 1671.A[18]new Song, to the New Jig-tune.WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,Your will, sir?I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,Do so still, sir.I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?But what, sir?Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?Let me ha't, sir.I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?But where, sir?To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?Why there, sir?I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?But when, sir?Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,Nor then, sir.I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?How much, sir?Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;Not a touch, sir.I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?But why, sir?'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?'Tis a lie, sir.I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?Are you sure on't?'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?There's no cure on't.Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,My true Love.I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,To a new love.
FromCaptain Wm. Hicks'Oxford Drollery, 1671.
A[18]new Song, to the New Jig-tune.
WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,Your will, sir?I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,Do so still, sir.I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?But what, sir?Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?Let me ha't, sir.I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?But where, sir?To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?Why there, sir?I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?But when, sir?Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,Nor then, sir.I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?How much, sir?Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;Not a touch, sir.I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?But why, sir?'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?'Tis a lie, sir.I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?Are you sure on't?'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?There's no cure on't.Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,My true Love.I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,To a new love.
WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,Your will, sir?I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,Do so still, sir.I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?But what, sir?Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?Let me ha't, sir.I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?But where, sir?To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?Why there, sir?I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?But when, sir?Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,Nor then, sir.I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?How much, sir?Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;Not a touch, sir.I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?But why, sir?'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?'Tis a lie, sir.I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?Are you sure on't?'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?There's no cure on't.Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,My true Love.I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,To a new love.
FromFolly in Print, 1667.A Song in Dialogue.Strephon.DEAR, I must do.Phillis.O I dare not.Strephon.'Twill not hurt you.Phillis.No, I care not.Strephon.Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.Phillis.Will you marry?Strephon.Yes, to-morrow.Phillis.Till then tarry.Strephon.I would borrow.Phillis.Fruit is best when gathered in season.
FromFolly in Print, 1667.
A Song in Dialogue.
Strephon.
DEAR, I must do.Phillis.O I dare not.Strephon.'Twill not hurt you.Phillis.No, I care not.Strephon.Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.Phillis.Will you marry?Strephon.Yes, to-morrow.Phillis.Till then tarry.Strephon.I would borrow.Phillis.Fruit is best when gathered in season.
DEAR, I must do.Phillis.O I dare not.Strephon.'Twill not hurt you.Phillis.No, I care not.Strephon.Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.Phillis.Will you marry?Strephon.Yes, to-morrow.Phillis.Till then tarry.Strephon.I would borrow.Phillis.Fruit is best when gathered in season.
FromThe Windsor Drollery, 1672.(After Anacreon.)[19]UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,On flowery beds supinely laid,With odorous oils my head o'erflowingAnd around it roses growing,What should I do but drink awayThe heat and troubles of the day?In this more than kingly state,Love himself shall on me wait:Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,And mingled cast into the cupWit and mirth, and noble fires,Vigorous health, and gay desires.The wheel of life no less will stayIn a smooth than rugged way;Since it equally doth flee,Let the motion pleasant be.Why do we precious ointments shower,Nobler wines why do we pour,Beauteous flowers why do we spreadUpon the monuments of the dead?Nothing they but dust can showOr bones that hasten to be so.Crown me with roses while I live,Now your wines and ointments give:After death I nothing crave,Let me alive my pleasures have:All are stoics in the grave.
FromThe Windsor Drollery, 1672.
(After Anacreon.)[19]
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,On flowery beds supinely laid,With odorous oils my head o'erflowingAnd around it roses growing,What should I do but drink awayThe heat and troubles of the day?In this more than kingly state,Love himself shall on me wait:Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,And mingled cast into the cupWit and mirth, and noble fires,Vigorous health, and gay desires.The wheel of life no less will stayIn a smooth than rugged way;Since it equally doth flee,Let the motion pleasant be.Why do we precious ointments shower,Nobler wines why do we pour,Beauteous flowers why do we spreadUpon the monuments of the dead?Nothing they but dust can showOr bones that hasten to be so.Crown me with roses while I live,Now your wines and ointments give:After death I nothing crave,Let me alive my pleasures have:All are stoics in the grave.
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,On flowery beds supinely laid,With odorous oils my head o'erflowingAnd around it roses growing,What should I do but drink awayThe heat and troubles of the day?In this more than kingly state,Love himself shall on me wait:Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,And mingled cast into the cupWit and mirth, and noble fires,Vigorous health, and gay desires.The wheel of life no less will stayIn a smooth than rugged way;Since it equally doth flee,Let the motion pleasant be.Why do we precious ointments shower,Nobler wines why do we pour,Beauteous flowers why do we spreadUpon the monuments of the dead?Nothing they but dust can showOr bones that hasten to be so.Crown me with roses while I live,Now your wines and ointments give:After death I nothing crave,Let me alive my pleasures have:All are stoics in the grave.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.On his Black Mistress.THINE'S fair, facetious,[20]all that canDelight the airy part of man:My love is black, thou sayst, her eyeHath something of severity.Therefore I love: her spring will lastWhen all thy flowers are dead and blastShe's wisely framed, with art is made;Your best night-pieces have most shade.And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mineYields not as great a warmth as thine?Her heat is inward, and she mayMore pleasant be another way:They're slow to yield, but, when they do,You have both soul and body too.The quicker eye and nimble tongueLeaves footsteps for suspicion;But in her looks and language liesA very charm for Argus' eyes.Now pray then tell me, and withalPray be not too-too partial,Doth not one feature[21]now in mineAppear more lovely than all thine?No airy objects will me[22]move,It is the sober black I love:I love't so well that I protestI love the blackest parts the best.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
On his Black Mistress.
THINE'S fair, facetious,[20]all that canDelight the airy part of man:My love is black, thou sayst, her eyeHath something of severity.Therefore I love: her spring will lastWhen all thy flowers are dead and blastShe's wisely framed, with art is made;Your best night-pieces have most shade.And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mineYields not as great a warmth as thine?Her heat is inward, and she mayMore pleasant be another way:They're slow to yield, but, when they do,You have both soul and body too.The quicker eye and nimble tongueLeaves footsteps for suspicion;But in her looks and language liesA very charm for Argus' eyes.Now pray then tell me, and withalPray be not too-too partial,Doth not one feature[21]now in mineAppear more lovely than all thine?No airy objects will me[22]move,It is the sober black I love:I love't so well that I protestI love the blackest parts the best.
THINE'S fair, facetious,[20]all that canDelight the airy part of man:My love is black, thou sayst, her eyeHath something of severity.Therefore I love: her spring will lastWhen all thy flowers are dead and blastShe's wisely framed, with art is made;Your best night-pieces have most shade.And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mineYields not as great a warmth as thine?Her heat is inward, and she mayMore pleasant be another way:They're slow to yield, but, when they do,You have both soul and body too.The quicker eye and nimble tongueLeaves footsteps for suspicion;But in her looks and language liesA very charm for Argus' eyes.Now pray then tell me, and withalPray be not too-too partial,Doth not one feature[21]now in mineAppear more lovely than all thine?No airy objects will me[22]move,It is the sober black I love:I love't so well that I protestI love the blackest parts the best.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.Two Kisses.ONCE and no more: so said my life,When in my arms inchainedShe unto mine her lips did move,And so my heart she gained.Thus done, she saith, "Away I mustFor fear of being missed;Your heart's made over but in trust;"And so again she kissed.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
Two Kisses.
ONCE and no more: so said my life,When in my arms inchainedShe unto mine her lips did move,And so my heart she gained.Thus done, she saith, "Away I mustFor fear of being missed;Your heart's made over but in trust;"And so again she kissed.
ONCE and no more: so said my life,When in my arms inchainedShe unto mine her lips did move,And so my heart she gained.Thus done, she saith, "Away I mustFor fear of being missed;Your heart's made over but in trust;"And so again she kissed.
FromRawlinson MS. Poet.199.On Mrs. Beata Poole with Black Eyes.IF shadows be the picture's excellenceAnd make it seem more lively to the sense;If stars in the bright day do lose their lightAnd shine more glorious in the masque of night,Why should you think, fair creature, that you lackPerfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?Or that your beauty that so far exceedsThe new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?Or is it fit that nature should have madeSo bright a sun to shine without a shade?It seems that nature, when she first did fancyYour rare composure, studied necromancy;And when to you those gifts she did impart,She studied altogether the black art.She drew the magic circle of your eyes,And made the chain where, in your hair, she tiesRebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,Twining Meander-like to either sphere,Mysterious figures are; and when you list,Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.O if in magic you have skill so far,Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'dOn outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.As by the spring-head we may often knowThe nature of the streams that run below,So your black hair and eyes do give directionTo make me think the rest of like perfection,—The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,That world-dividing gulf where whoso ventersWith swelling sails and ravish'd senses entersInto a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,If my rude muse doth seem here to displaySecrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpastIn praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.A rover in the mark his arrows sticksSometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.And if I could direct my shaft aright,The black mark would I hit and miss the white.
FromRawlinson MS. Poet.199.
On Mrs. Beata Poole with Black Eyes.
IF shadows be the picture's excellenceAnd make it seem more lively to the sense;If stars in the bright day do lose their lightAnd shine more glorious in the masque of night,Why should you think, fair creature, that you lackPerfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?Or that your beauty that so far exceedsThe new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?Or is it fit that nature should have madeSo bright a sun to shine without a shade?It seems that nature, when she first did fancyYour rare composure, studied necromancy;And when to you those gifts she did impart,She studied altogether the black art.She drew the magic circle of your eyes,And made the chain where, in your hair, she tiesRebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,Twining Meander-like to either sphere,Mysterious figures are; and when you list,Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.O if in magic you have skill so far,Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'dOn outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.As by the spring-head we may often knowThe nature of the streams that run below,So your black hair and eyes do give directionTo make me think the rest of like perfection,—The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,That world-dividing gulf where whoso ventersWith swelling sails and ravish'd senses entersInto a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,If my rude muse doth seem here to displaySecrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpastIn praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.A rover in the mark his arrows sticksSometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.And if I could direct my shaft aright,The black mark would I hit and miss the white.
IF shadows be the picture's excellenceAnd make it seem more lively to the sense;If stars in the bright day do lose their lightAnd shine more glorious in the masque of night,Why should you think, fair creature, that you lackPerfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?Or that your beauty that so far exceedsThe new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?Or is it fit that nature should have madeSo bright a sun to shine without a shade?It seems that nature, when she first did fancyYour rare composure, studied necromancy;And when to you those gifts she did impart,She studied altogether the black art.She drew the magic circle of your eyes,And made the chain where, in your hair, she tiesRebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,Twining Meander-like to either sphere,Mysterious figures are; and when you list,Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.O if in magic you have skill so far,Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'dOn outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.As by the spring-head we may often knowThe nature of the streams that run below,So your black hair and eyes do give directionTo make me think the rest of like perfection,—The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,That world-dividing gulf where whoso ventersWith swelling sails and ravish'd senses entersInto a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,If my rude muse doth seem here to displaySecrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpastIn praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.A rover in the mark his arrows sticksSometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.And if I could direct my shaft aright,The black mark would I hit and miss the white.
FromChoice Drollery, 1656.Black eyes and enticing frowns.[23]To Lucina.BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lieMy ill or happy destiny.If with clear looks you me behold,You give me treasures full of gold;If you dart forth disdainful rays,To your own dye you turn my days.That lamp which all the stars doth blindTo modest Cynthia is less kind,Though you do wear, to make you bright,No other dress than that of night.He glitters only in the day;You in the dark your beams display.The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,At some dark corner watching lies;So that heart-robbing God doth standIn those black gems, with shaft in hand,To rifle me of what I holdMore precious far than Indian gold.Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,Who in your circles strictly priesWill find that Cupid with his dartIn you doth practise the black art;And by those spells I am possest,Tries his conclusions in my breast.Though from those objects frowns arise,Some kind of frowns become black eyes,As pointed diamonds being setCast greater lustre out of jet.Those pieces we esteem most rare,Which in night-shadows postured are.Darkness in churches congregates the sight;Devotion strays in open daring light.
FromChoice Drollery, 1656.
Black eyes and enticing frowns.[23]
To Lucina.
BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lieMy ill or happy destiny.If with clear looks you me behold,You give me treasures full of gold;If you dart forth disdainful rays,To your own dye you turn my days.That lamp which all the stars doth blindTo modest Cynthia is less kind,Though you do wear, to make you bright,No other dress than that of night.He glitters only in the day;You in the dark your beams display.The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,At some dark corner watching lies;So that heart-robbing God doth standIn those black gems, with shaft in hand,To rifle me of what I holdMore precious far than Indian gold.Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,Who in your circles strictly priesWill find that Cupid with his dartIn you doth practise the black art;And by those spells I am possest,Tries his conclusions in my breast.Though from those objects frowns arise,Some kind of frowns become black eyes,As pointed diamonds being setCast greater lustre out of jet.Those pieces we esteem most rare,Which in night-shadows postured are.Darkness in churches congregates the sight;Devotion strays in open daring light.
BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lieMy ill or happy destiny.If with clear looks you me behold,You give me treasures full of gold;If you dart forth disdainful rays,To your own dye you turn my days.That lamp which all the stars doth blindTo modest Cynthia is less kind,Though you do wear, to make you bright,No other dress than that of night.He glitters only in the day;You in the dark your beams display.The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,At some dark corner watching lies;So that heart-robbing God doth standIn those black gems, with shaft in hand,To rifle me of what I holdMore precious far than Indian gold.Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,Who in your circles strictly priesWill find that Cupid with his dartIn you doth practise the black art;And by those spells I am possest,Tries his conclusions in my breast.Though from those objects frowns arise,Some kind of frowns become black eyes,As pointed diamonds being setCast greater lustre out of jet.Those pieces we esteem most rare,Which in night-shadows postured are.Darkness in churches congregates the sight;Devotion strays in open daring light.
FromRobert Jones'Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.METHOUGHT[24]the other nightI saw a pretty sightThat pleased me much;A fair and comely maid,Not squeamish nor afraidTo let me touch,Our lips most sweetly kissing,Each other never missing;Her smiling looks did show contentAnd that she did but what she meant.And as her lips did moveThe echo still was love,"Love, love me, sweet!"Then with a maiden blush,Instead of crying "Push!"[25]Our lips did meet:With music sweetly sounding,With pleasures all abounding,We kept the burthen of the song,Which was that love should take no wrong.And yet, as maidens use,She seemed to refuseThe name of love,Until I did protestThat I did love her best,And so will prove:With that, as both amazed,Each at the other gazed,My eyes did see, my hands did feel,Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.O when I felt her breastWhere love did rest,My love was suchI could have been contentMy best blood to have spentIn that sweet touch:But now comes that which vext us,There was a bar betwixt us,A bar that barred me from that partWhere nature did contend with art.If ever love had powerTo send one happy hour,Then show thy might,And take such bars awayWhich are the only stayOf love's delight.All this was but a dreaming,Although another meaning.Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;I will love you, you may love me.
FromRobert Jones'Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
METHOUGHT[24]the other nightI saw a pretty sightThat pleased me much;A fair and comely maid,Not squeamish nor afraidTo let me touch,Our lips most sweetly kissing,Each other never missing;Her smiling looks did show contentAnd that she did but what she meant.And as her lips did moveThe echo still was love,"Love, love me, sweet!"Then with a maiden blush,Instead of crying "Push!"[25]Our lips did meet:With music sweetly sounding,With pleasures all abounding,We kept the burthen of the song,Which was that love should take no wrong.And yet, as maidens use,She seemed to refuseThe name of love,Until I did protestThat I did love her best,And so will prove:With that, as both amazed,Each at the other gazed,My eyes did see, my hands did feel,Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.O when I felt her breastWhere love did rest,My love was suchI could have been contentMy best blood to have spentIn that sweet touch:But now comes that which vext us,There was a bar betwixt us,A bar that barred me from that partWhere nature did contend with art.If ever love had powerTo send one happy hour,Then show thy might,And take such bars awayWhich are the only stayOf love's delight.All this was but a dreaming,Although another meaning.Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;I will love you, you may love me.
METHOUGHT[24]the other nightI saw a pretty sightThat pleased me much;A fair and comely maid,Not squeamish nor afraidTo let me touch,Our lips most sweetly kissing,Each other never missing;Her smiling looks did show contentAnd that she did but what she meant.
And as her lips did moveThe echo still was love,"Love, love me, sweet!"Then with a maiden blush,Instead of crying "Push!"[25]Our lips did meet:With music sweetly sounding,With pleasures all abounding,We kept the burthen of the song,Which was that love should take no wrong.
And yet, as maidens use,She seemed to refuseThe name of love,Until I did protestThat I did love her best,And so will prove:With that, as both amazed,Each at the other gazed,My eyes did see, my hands did feel,Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.
O when I felt her breastWhere love did rest,My love was suchI could have been contentMy best blood to have spentIn that sweet touch:But now comes that which vext us,There was a bar betwixt us,A bar that barred me from that partWhere nature did contend with art.
If ever love had powerTo send one happy hour,Then show thy might,And take such bars awayWhich are the only stayOf love's delight.All this was but a dreaming,Although another meaning.Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;I will love you, you may love me.
FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.AS I traversed to and fro,And in the fields was walking,I chanced to hear two sistersThat secretly were talking.The younger to the elder said,Prithee why do'st not marry?In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to theeI mean not long to tarry.When I was fifteen years of ageThen I had suitors many,But I, a wanton peevish wench,Would not sport with any;Till at the last, I sleeping fast,Cupid came to woo me,And like a lad that was stark madHe swore he would come to me.And then he lay down by my sideAnd spread his arms upon me,And I being 'twixt sleep and wakeDid strive to thrust him from me,But he with all the power he hadDid lie the harder on me.And then he did so play with meAs I was play'd with never;The wanton boy so pleased me,I would have slept for ever.And then methought the world turn'd roundAnd Phœbus fell a-skipping,And all the nymphs and goddessesAbout us two were tripping.Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'dHis Ocean streams upon us,But Boreas with his blust'ring blastsDid strive to keep him from us.Limping Vulcan he cameAs if he had been jealous,Venus follow'd after himAnd swore she'd blow the bellows.Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,And swore he would him smother:Quoth Cupid, Said I so to theeWhen thou lay'st with my mother?Juno, then, and JupiterCame marching with Apollo;Pan came in with Mercury,And then began the hollo;Cupid ran and hid himself,And so of joys bereft me:For suddenly I did awake,And all these fancies left me.
FromThe Academy of Compliments, 1650.
AS I traversed to and fro,And in the fields was walking,I chanced to hear two sistersThat secretly were talking.The younger to the elder said,Prithee why do'st not marry?In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to theeI mean not long to tarry.When I was fifteen years of ageThen I had suitors many,But I, a wanton peevish wench,Would not sport with any;Till at the last, I sleeping fast,Cupid came to woo me,And like a lad that was stark madHe swore he would come to me.And then he lay down by my sideAnd spread his arms upon me,And I being 'twixt sleep and wakeDid strive to thrust him from me,But he with all the power he hadDid lie the harder on me.And then he did so play with meAs I was play'd with never;The wanton boy so pleased me,I would have slept for ever.And then methought the world turn'd roundAnd Phœbus fell a-skipping,And all the nymphs and goddessesAbout us two were tripping.Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'dHis Ocean streams upon us,But Boreas with his blust'ring blastsDid strive to keep him from us.Limping Vulcan he cameAs if he had been jealous,Venus follow'd after himAnd swore she'd blow the bellows.Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,And swore he would him smother:Quoth Cupid, Said I so to theeWhen thou lay'st with my mother?Juno, then, and JupiterCame marching with Apollo;Pan came in with Mercury,And then began the hollo;Cupid ran and hid himself,And so of joys bereft me:For suddenly I did awake,And all these fancies left me.
AS I traversed to and fro,And in the fields was walking,I chanced to hear two sistersThat secretly were talking.The younger to the elder said,Prithee why do'st not marry?In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to theeI mean not long to tarry.When I was fifteen years of ageThen I had suitors many,But I, a wanton peevish wench,Would not sport with any;Till at the last, I sleeping fast,Cupid came to woo me,And like a lad that was stark madHe swore he would come to me.And then he lay down by my sideAnd spread his arms upon me,And I being 'twixt sleep and wakeDid strive to thrust him from me,But he with all the power he hadDid lie the harder on me.And then he did so play with meAs I was play'd with never;The wanton boy so pleased me,I would have slept for ever.And then methought the world turn'd roundAnd Phœbus fell a-skipping,And all the nymphs and goddessesAbout us two were tripping.Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'dHis Ocean streams upon us,But Boreas with his blust'ring blastsDid strive to keep him from us.Limping Vulcan he cameAs if he had been jealous,Venus follow'd after himAnd swore she'd blow the bellows.Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,And swore he would him smother:Quoth Cupid, Said I so to theeWhen thou lay'st with my mother?Juno, then, and JupiterCame marching with Apollo;Pan came in with Mercury,And then began the hollo;Cupid ran and hid himself,And so of joys bereft me:For suddenly I did awake,And all these fancies left me.
FromSongs and Poems of Love and Drollery. By T. W.[26]1654.To Sylvia frowning.NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,Shall make my sadder verse complainOr my well kindled fame abate:Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,But one resolved like mine can make them start.Contract thy brow, and let thine eyeDart thunderbolts of anger still;Storm me with all th' artillery,With which Love's rebels use to kill:I'll not retreat till I or conqueror beOr martyr of thy cruelty and thee.Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not tillThy magazine of anger's spent:If I survive and love thee still,I know thou then must needs relent:Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercomeA tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.But if I fall unto[27]thy hateAnd stubborn scorn a sacrifice,I shall be happy in that fateWhilst with me all my torment dies:Thus shall my constancy for thy disdainEither begin my bliss or end my pain.
FromSongs and Poems of Love and Drollery. By T. W.[26]1654.
To Sylvia frowning.
NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,Shall make my sadder verse complainOr my well kindled fame abate:Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,But one resolved like mine can make them start.Contract thy brow, and let thine eyeDart thunderbolts of anger still;Storm me with all th' artillery,With which Love's rebels use to kill:I'll not retreat till I or conqueror beOr martyr of thy cruelty and thee.Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not tillThy magazine of anger's spent:If I survive and love thee still,I know thou then must needs relent:Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercomeA tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.But if I fall unto[27]thy hateAnd stubborn scorn a sacrifice,I shall be happy in that fateWhilst with me all my torment dies:Thus shall my constancy for thy disdainEither begin my bliss or end my pain.
NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,Shall make my sadder verse complainOr my well kindled fame abate:Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,But one resolved like mine can make them start.
Contract thy brow, and let thine eyeDart thunderbolts of anger still;Storm me with all th' artillery,With which Love's rebels use to kill:I'll not retreat till I or conqueror beOr martyr of thy cruelty and thee.
Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not tillThy magazine of anger's spent:If I survive and love thee still,I know thou then must needs relent:Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercomeA tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.
But if I fall unto[27]thy hateAnd stubborn scorn a sacrifice,I shall be happy in that fateWhilst with me all my torment dies:Thus shall my constancy for thy disdainEither begin my bliss or end my pain.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.I[28]DREAM'D we both were in a bedOf roses almost smothered;But when I heard thy sweet breath say"Faults done by night will blush by day,"I kiss'd thee panting, and I callThe night to record that was all.But ah, if empty dreams so please,Love give me more such nights as these.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
I[28]DREAM'D we both were in a bedOf roses almost smothered;But when I heard thy sweet breath say"Faults done by night will blush by day,"I kiss'd thee panting, and I callThe night to record that was all.But ah, if empty dreams so please,Love give me more such nights as these.
I[28]DREAM'D we both were in a bedOf roses almost smothered;But when I heard thy sweet breath say"Faults done by night will blush by day,"I kiss'd thee panting, and I callThe night to record that was all.But ah, if empty dreams so please,Love give me more such nights as these.
FromThe Westminster Drollery, 1671.CHLORIS, when I to thee presentThe cause of all my discontent;And show that all the wealth that canFlow from this little world of manIs nought but constancy and love,Why will you other objects prove?O do not cozen your desiresWith common and mechanic fires:That picture which you see in goldIn every shop is to be sold:And diamonds of richest priceMen only value with their eyes.But look upon my loyal heartThat knows to value every part,And loves thy hidden virtue moreThan outward shape, which fools adore:In that you'll all the treasures findThat can content a noble mind.
FromThe Westminster Drollery, 1671.
CHLORIS, when I to thee presentThe cause of all my discontent;And show that all the wealth that canFlow from this little world of manIs nought but constancy and love,Why will you other objects prove?O do not cozen your desiresWith common and mechanic fires:That picture which you see in goldIn every shop is to be sold:And diamonds of richest priceMen only value with their eyes.But look upon my loyal heartThat knows to value every part,And loves thy hidden virtue moreThan outward shape, which fools adore:In that you'll all the treasures findThat can content a noble mind.
CHLORIS, when I to thee presentThe cause of all my discontent;And show that all the wealth that canFlow from this little world of manIs nought but constancy and love,Why will you other objects prove?
O do not cozen your desiresWith common and mechanic fires:That picture which you see in goldIn every shop is to be sold:And diamonds of richest priceMen only value with their eyes.
But look upon my loyal heartThat knows to value every part,And loves thy hidden virtue moreThan outward shape, which fools adore:In that you'll all the treasures findThat can content a noble mind.
FromThe Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, 1658.Cupid Contemned.CUPID, thou art a sluggish boyAnd dost neglect thy calling;Thy bow and arrows are a toy;Thy monarchy is falling.Unless thou dost recall thy selfAnd take thy tools about thee,Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,And all the world will flout thee.Rouse up thy spirit like a god,And play the archer finely,Let none escape thy shaft or rod'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:So mayst thou chance to plague that heartThat cruelly hath made me smart.
FromThe Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, 1658.
Cupid Contemned.
CUPID, thou art a sluggish boyAnd dost neglect thy calling;Thy bow and arrows are a toy;Thy monarchy is falling.Unless thou dost recall thy selfAnd take thy tools about thee,Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,And all the world will flout thee.Rouse up thy spirit like a god,And play the archer finely,Let none escape thy shaft or rod'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:So mayst thou chance to plague that heartThat cruelly hath made me smart.
CUPID, thou art a sluggish boyAnd dost neglect thy calling;Thy bow and arrows are a toy;Thy monarchy is falling.
Unless thou dost recall thy selfAnd take thy tools about thee,Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,And all the world will flout thee.
Rouse up thy spirit like a god,And play the archer finely,Let none escape thy shaft or rod'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:So mayst thou chance to plague that heartThat cruelly hath made me smart.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.DO[29]not ask me, charming Phillis,Why I lead you here aloneBy this bank of pinks and liliesAnd of roses newly blown.'Tis not to behold the beautyOf those flowers that crown the spring,'Tis to—but I know my dutyAnd dare never name the thing.'Tis at worst but her denying:Why should I thus fearful be?Every minute, gently flying,Smiles and says "Make use of me."What the sun does to those rosesWhile the beams play sweetly in,I would—but my fear opposesAnd I dare not name the thing.Yet I die if I conceal it:Ask my eyes, or ask your own,And if neither dare reveal it,Think what lovers think alone.On this bank of pinks and lilies,Might I speak what I would do,I would—with my lovely Phillis—I would—I would—ah, would you?
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
DO[29]not ask me, charming Phillis,Why I lead you here aloneBy this bank of pinks and liliesAnd of roses newly blown.'Tis not to behold the beautyOf those flowers that crown the spring,'Tis to—but I know my dutyAnd dare never name the thing.'Tis at worst but her denying:Why should I thus fearful be?Every minute, gently flying,Smiles and says "Make use of me."What the sun does to those rosesWhile the beams play sweetly in,I would—but my fear opposesAnd I dare not name the thing.Yet I die if I conceal it:Ask my eyes, or ask your own,And if neither dare reveal it,Think what lovers think alone.On this bank of pinks and lilies,Might I speak what I would do,I would—with my lovely Phillis—I would—I would—ah, would you?
DO[29]not ask me, charming Phillis,Why I lead you here aloneBy this bank of pinks and liliesAnd of roses newly blown.
'Tis not to behold the beautyOf those flowers that crown the spring,'Tis to—but I know my dutyAnd dare never name the thing.
'Tis at worst but her denying:Why should I thus fearful be?Every minute, gently flying,Smiles and says "Make use of me."
What the sun does to those rosesWhile the beams play sweetly in,I would—but my fear opposesAnd I dare not name the thing.
Yet I die if I conceal it:Ask my eyes, or ask your own,And if neither dare reveal it,Think what lovers think alone.
On this bank of pinks and lilies,Might I speak what I would do,I would—with my lovely Phillis—I would—I would—ah, would you?
FromWilliam Corkine'sAirs, 1610.HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!
FromWilliam Corkine'sAirs, 1610.
HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!
HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!
FromThe Marrow of Compliments, 1655.HER dainty palm I gently prestAnd with her lip I play'd;My cheek upon her panting breastAnd on her neck I laid:And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,Nor did we then mistrust.With pleasant toil we breathless grew,And kiss'd in warmer blood;Upon her lips the honey-dewLike drops on roses' stood:And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,Whose sweets were such to me.But kissing and embracing weSo long together lay,Her touches all inflamed meAnd I began to stray;My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,My tongue unwisely told.
FromThe Marrow of Compliments, 1655.
HER dainty palm I gently prestAnd with her lip I play'd;My cheek upon her panting breastAnd on her neck I laid:And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,Nor did we then mistrust.With pleasant toil we breathless grew,And kiss'd in warmer blood;Upon her lips the honey-dewLike drops on roses' stood:And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,Whose sweets were such to me.But kissing and embracing weSo long together lay,Her touches all inflamed meAnd I began to stray;My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,My tongue unwisely told.
HER dainty palm I gently prestAnd with her lip I play'd;My cheek upon her panting breastAnd on her neck I laid:And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,Nor did we then mistrust.
With pleasant toil we breathless grew,And kiss'd in warmer blood;Upon her lips the honey-dewLike drops on roses' stood:And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,Whose sweets were such to me.
But kissing and embracing weSo long together lay,Her touches all inflamed meAnd I began to stray;My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,My tongue unwisely told.
FromThomas Greaves'Songs, 1604.IPRAY thee, sweet John, away!I cannot tell how to love thee!""Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me.""O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:If this will not move thee, gentle John,Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.(Down a down!)"Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,This fooling I cannot abide;Leave off! or in faith I must chide.See now, faith, here are proper deeds:Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,Repentance follows with an after-clap.Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."(Down a down!)
FromThomas Greaves'Songs, 1604.
IPRAY thee, sweet John, away!I cannot tell how to love thee!""Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me.""O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:If this will not move thee, gentle John,Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.(Down a down!)"Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,This fooling I cannot abide;Leave off! or in faith I must chide.See now, faith, here are proper deeds:Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,Repentance follows with an after-clap.Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."(Down a down!)
IPRAY thee, sweet John, away!I cannot tell how to love thee!""Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me.""O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:If this will not move thee, gentle John,Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.(Down a down!)
"Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,This fooling I cannot abide;Leave off! or in faith I must chide.See now, faith, here are proper deeds:Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,Repentance follows with an after-clap.Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."(Down a down!)
FromDr. John Wilson'sCheerful Airs or Ballads, 1660.ISWEAR[30]by muscadelThat I do love thee wellAnd more than I can tell;By the white claret and sackI do love thy Black, black, black.So lovely and so fair,O'ershadowed with thy hair,So nimble just like air:All these set me on love's wrackFor thy sweeter Black, black, black.No goddess 'mongst them allSo slender and so tall,And graceful too withal:Which makes my sinews to crackFor thy dainty Black, black, black.Thy kind and loving eye,When first I did espy,Our loves it did descry,Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."
FromDr. John Wilson'sCheerful Airs or Ballads, 1660.
ISWEAR[30]by muscadelThat I do love thee wellAnd more than I can tell;By the white claret and sackI do love thy Black, black, black.So lovely and so fair,O'ershadowed with thy hair,So nimble just like air:All these set me on love's wrackFor thy sweeter Black, black, black.No goddess 'mongst them allSo slender and so tall,And graceful too withal:Which makes my sinews to crackFor thy dainty Black, black, black.Thy kind and loving eye,When first I did espy,Our loves it did descry,Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."
ISWEAR[30]by muscadelThat I do love thee wellAnd more than I can tell;By the white claret and sackI do love thy Black, black, black.
So lovely and so fair,O'ershadowed with thy hair,So nimble just like air:All these set me on love's wrackFor thy sweeter Black, black, black.
No goddess 'mongst them allSo slender and so tall,And graceful too withal:Which makes my sinews to crackFor thy dainty Black, black, black.
Thy kind and loving eye,When first I did espy,Our loves it did descry,Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,But I'm afraidThou'lt die a maidAnd so lead apes to[31]hell.For why,[32]my dear, 'tis pity it should be soThou'rt better than[33]To take a manAnd keep thee from the foe.Thou art so pretty and fine,And wondrous handsome too;Then be not coy,Let's get a boy:Alas! what should we do?I see thy brow,And well I knowWhat colour is below:Then do not jest,But smile the rest:I'faith I know what I know.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,But I'm afraidThou'lt die a maidAnd so lead apes to[31]hell.For why,[32]my dear, 'tis pity it should be soThou'rt better than[33]To take a manAnd keep thee from the foe.Thou art so pretty and fine,And wondrous handsome too;Then be not coy,Let's get a boy:Alas! what should we do?I see thy brow,And well I knowWhat colour is below:Then do not jest,But smile the rest:I'faith I know what I know.
SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,But I'm afraidThou'lt die a maidAnd so lead apes to[31]hell.For why,[32]my dear, 'tis pity it should be soThou'rt better than[33]To take a manAnd keep thee from the foe.Thou art so pretty and fine,And wondrous handsome too;Then be not coy,Let's get a boy:Alas! what should we do?I see thy brow,And well I knowWhat colour is below:Then do not jest,But smile the rest:I'faith I know what I know.
FromSportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment, 1656.A Maiden's Denial.[34]NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speedYou mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wistSo much before, I would have shut you out.Is it a proper thing you go about?I did not think you would have used me this,But now I see I took my aim amiss.A little thing would make me not be friends:You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?If you go sweating down what will men think?Remember, sir, how you have used me now;Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.If any man but you had used me so,Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,And then at cards we better shall agree.
FromSportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment, 1656.
A Maiden's Denial.[34]
NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speedYou mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wistSo much before, I would have shut you out.Is it a proper thing you go about?I did not think you would have used me this,But now I see I took my aim amiss.A little thing would make me not be friends:You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?If you go sweating down what will men think?Remember, sir, how you have used me now;Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.If any man but you had used me so,Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,And then at cards we better shall agree.
NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speedYou mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wistSo much before, I would have shut you out.Is it a proper thing you go about?I did not think you would have used me this,But now I see I took my aim amiss.A little thing would make me not be friends:You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?If you go sweating down what will men think?Remember, sir, how you have used me now;Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.If any man but you had used me so,Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,And then at cards we better shall agree.
FromSloane MS.1792. fol. 6.On Dreams.YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,That fly from brain to brain,And represent a world of thingsWith much ado and little pain:You visit ladies in their beds,And are most busy in their ease;You put such fancies in their headsThat make them think of what you please.How highly am I bound to you(Safe messengers of secrecy)That made my mistress think on meJust in the place where I would be!O that you would me once preferTo be in place of one of you,That I might go to visit herAnd she might swear her dream were true!
FromSloane MS.1792. fol. 6.
On Dreams.
YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,That fly from brain to brain,And represent a world of thingsWith much ado and little pain:You visit ladies in their beds,And are most busy in their ease;You put such fancies in their headsThat make them think of what you please.How highly am I bound to you(Safe messengers of secrecy)That made my mistress think on meJust in the place where I would be!O that you would me once preferTo be in place of one of you,That I might go to visit herAnd she might swear her dream were true!
YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,That fly from brain to brain,And represent a world of thingsWith much ado and little pain:
You visit ladies in their beds,And are most busy in their ease;You put such fancies in their headsThat make them think of what you please.
How highly am I bound to you(Safe messengers of secrecy)That made my mistress think on meJust in the place where I would be!
O that you would me once preferTo be in place of one of you,That I might go to visit herAnd she might swear her dream were true!
FromThomas Campion'sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).SWEET, exclude me not, nor be dividedFrom him that ere long must bed thee;All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;Sure[35]we are and I must wed thee.Presume then yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,Pay their rent before the quarter;'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;Put me not then off with laughter:Consider then a little more,Here's the way to all my store.Why were doors in love's despite devised,Are not laws enough restraining?Women are most apt to be surprised,Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.Then grace me yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.
FromThomas Campion'sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).
SWEET, exclude me not, nor be dividedFrom him that ere long must bed thee;All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;Sure[35]we are and I must wed thee.Presume then yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,Pay their rent before the quarter;'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;Put me not then off with laughter:Consider then a little more,Here's the way to all my store.Why were doors in love's despite devised,Are not laws enough restraining?Women are most apt to be surprised,Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.Then grace me yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.
SWEET, exclude me not, nor be dividedFrom him that ere long must bed thee;All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;Sure[35]we are and I must wed thee.Presume then yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.
Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,Pay their rent before the quarter;'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;Put me not then off with laughter:Consider then a little more,Here's the way to all my store.
Why were doors in love's despite devised,Are not laws enough restraining?Women are most apt to be surprised,Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.Then grace me yet a little more:Here's the way, bar not the door.
FromThomas Jordan'sPoetical Varieties,[36]1637.A Dialogue betwixt Castadorus and Arabella in bed.Arabella.DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,Aurora 'gins to jeer me:She tells me I do wantonise.Castadorus.I prithee, sweet, lie near me.Let red Aurora blush, my dear,And Phœbus laughing follow;Thou only art Aurora here,Let me be thy Apollo.It is to envy at our blissThat they do rise before us:Is there such hurt in this or this?Arabella.Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!Castadorus.What, Arabella, can one nightOf wanton dalliance tire you?I could be ever if I might:One hour let me desire you.Arabella.Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!If you so roughly use me,What can I say or think of you.Castadorus.I prithee, Love, excuse me.Thy beauty and my love defendI should ungently move thee:'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:Is it not I that love thee?Arabella.I do confess it is, but then—Since you do so importuneThat I should once lie down again—Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.Aurora and Apollo, too,May visit silent fields;By my consent they ne'er shall knowThe bliss our pleasure yields.
FromThomas Jordan'sPoetical Varieties,[36]1637.
A Dialogue betwixt Castadorus and Arabella in bed.
Arabella.
DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,Aurora 'gins to jeer me:She tells me I do wantonise.Castadorus.I prithee, sweet, lie near me.Let red Aurora blush, my dear,And Phœbus laughing follow;Thou only art Aurora here,Let me be thy Apollo.It is to envy at our blissThat they do rise before us:Is there such hurt in this or this?Arabella.Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!Castadorus.What, Arabella, can one nightOf wanton dalliance tire you?I could be ever if I might:One hour let me desire you.Arabella.Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!If you so roughly use me,What can I say or think of you.Castadorus.I prithee, Love, excuse me.Thy beauty and my love defendI should ungently move thee:'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:Is it not I that love thee?Arabella.I do confess it is, but then—Since you do so importuneThat I should once lie down again—Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.Aurora and Apollo, too,May visit silent fields;By my consent they ne'er shall knowThe bliss our pleasure yields.
DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,Aurora 'gins to jeer me:She tells me I do wantonise.Castadorus.I prithee, sweet, lie near me.
Let red Aurora blush, my dear,And Phœbus laughing follow;Thou only art Aurora here,Let me be thy Apollo.
It is to envy at our blissThat they do rise before us:Is there such hurt in this or this?Arabella.Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!
Castadorus.What, Arabella, can one nightOf wanton dalliance tire you?I could be ever if I might:One hour let me desire you.
Arabella.Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!If you so roughly use me,What can I say or think of you.Castadorus.I prithee, Love, excuse me.
Thy beauty and my love defendI should ungently move thee:'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:Is it not I that love thee?
Arabella.I do confess it is, but then—Since you do so importuneThat I should once lie down again—Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.
Aurora and Apollo, too,May visit silent fields;By my consent they ne'er shall knowThe bliss our pleasure yields.
FromJohn Dowland'sThird Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.WHEN Phœbus first did Daphne love,And no means might her favour move,He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,"Is I have vowed virginity."Then in a rage he sware and said,Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.If maidens then shall chance be spedEre they can scarcely dress their head,Yet pardon them, for they be lothTo make God Phœbus break his oath:And better 'twere a child were bornThan that a God should be foresworn.
FromJohn Dowland'sThird Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.
WHEN Phœbus first did Daphne love,And no means might her favour move,He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,"Is I have vowed virginity."Then in a rage he sware and said,Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.If maidens then shall chance be spedEre they can scarcely dress their head,Yet pardon them, for they be lothTo make God Phœbus break his oath:And better 'twere a child were bornThan that a God should be foresworn.
WHEN Phœbus first did Daphne love,And no means might her favour move,He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,"Is I have vowed virginity."Then in a rage he sware and said,Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.
If maidens then shall chance be spedEre they can scarcely dress their head,Yet pardon them, for they be lothTo make God Phœbus break his oath:And better 'twere a child were bornThan that a God should be foresworn.
In Wit's Interpreter, 1655, and other Miscellanies, a third stanza is given:—
"Yet silly they, when all is done,Complain our wits their hearts have won,When 'tis for fear that they should beWith Daphne turn'd into a tree:And who would so herself abuseTo be a tree, if she could chuse?"
"Yet silly they, when all is done,Complain our wits their hearts have won,When 'tis for fear that they should beWith Daphne turn'd into a tree:And who would so herself abuseTo be a tree, if she could chuse?"
The younger Donne printed the verses among thePoems by William, Earl of Pembroke, and Benjamin Ruddier, 1660, ascribing them to the Earl. Donne's authority carries no weight.