FromHarl. MS.791, fol. 54.WHY[37]should passion lead thee blind'Cause thy mistress is unkind?She's yet too young to shew delightAnd is not plumed for Cupid's flight;She cannot yet in height of pleasurePay her lover equal measure,But like the rose new blown doth feedThe eye alone but bears no seed.She is yet but in her spring,Cold in love till Cupid bringA hotter season with his fire,Which soon will ripen her desire.Autumn will shortly come and greet her,Making her taste and colour sweeter:Her ripeness then will soon be suchAs she will fall even with a touch.
FromHarl. MS.791, fol. 54.
WHY[37]should passion lead thee blind'Cause thy mistress is unkind?She's yet too young to shew delightAnd is not plumed for Cupid's flight;She cannot yet in height of pleasurePay her lover equal measure,But like the rose new blown doth feedThe eye alone but bears no seed.She is yet but in her spring,Cold in love till Cupid bringA hotter season with his fire,Which soon will ripen her desire.Autumn will shortly come and greet her,Making her taste and colour sweeter:Her ripeness then will soon be suchAs she will fall even with a touch.
WHY[37]should passion lead thee blind'Cause thy mistress is unkind?She's yet too young to shew delightAnd is not plumed for Cupid's flight;She cannot yet in height of pleasurePay her lover equal measure,But like the rose new blown doth feedThe eye alone but bears no seed.
She is yet but in her spring,Cold in love till Cupid bringA hotter season with his fire,Which soon will ripen her desire.Autumn will shortly come and greet her,Making her taste and colour sweeter:Her ripeness then will soon be suchAs she will fall even with a touch.
FromMalone MS.16.YES[38]I could love if I could findA mistress fitting to my mind;Whom neither pride nor gold could moveTo buy her beauty, sell her love;Were neat, yet cared not to be fine,And loved me for myself, not mine;Were rather comely than too fair,White skinn'd and of a lovely hair;Not ever-blushing, nor too bold;Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold;Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue;Nor puling weak, nor manlike strong;Modestly full of pleasing mirth,Yet close as centre of the earth;In whom you no passion seeBut when she looks or speaks of me;Who calls to bed with melting eyes;As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise:If such a one you chance to find,She is a mistress to my mind.
FromMalone MS.16.
YES[38]I could love if I could findA mistress fitting to my mind;Whom neither pride nor gold could moveTo buy her beauty, sell her love;Were neat, yet cared not to be fine,And loved me for myself, not mine;Were rather comely than too fair,White skinn'd and of a lovely hair;Not ever-blushing, nor too bold;Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold;Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue;Nor puling weak, nor manlike strong;Modestly full of pleasing mirth,Yet close as centre of the earth;In whom you no passion seeBut when she looks or speaks of me;Who calls to bed with melting eyes;As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise:If such a one you chance to find,She is a mistress to my mind.
YES[38]I could love if I could findA mistress fitting to my mind;Whom neither pride nor gold could moveTo buy her beauty, sell her love;Were neat, yet cared not to be fine,And loved me for myself, not mine;Were rather comely than too fair,White skinn'd and of a lovely hair;Not ever-blushing, nor too bold;Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold;Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue;Nor puling weak, nor manlike strong;Modestly full of pleasing mirth,Yet close as centre of the earth;In whom you no passion seeBut when she looks or speaks of me;Who calls to bed with melting eyes;As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise:If such a one you chance to find,She is a mistress to my mind.
FromAshmole MS.38, No. 196.YOU that in the midst of nightCan acquaint mine eyes with light,Also can command the day,When you please, to go or stay;Nothing can your powers resistWhilst your shining eyes persist.O do but smile! show more delightIn adding lustre to the night,That your admirer now may sayNight's more clearer than the day.
FromAshmole MS.38, No. 196.
YOU that in the midst of nightCan acquaint mine eyes with light,Also can command the day,When you please, to go or stay;Nothing can your powers resistWhilst your shining eyes persist.O do but smile! show more delightIn adding lustre to the night,That your admirer now may sayNight's more clearer than the day.
YOU that in the midst of nightCan acquaint mine eyes with light,Also can command the day,When you please, to go or stay;Nothing can your powers resistWhilst your shining eyes persist.O do but smile! show more delightIn adding lustre to the night,That your admirer now may sayNight's more clearer than the day.
FromThe Banquet of Music, 1688.WHY is your faithful slave disdain'd?By gentle arts my heart you gain'd,O keep it by the same.For ever shall my passion last,If you will make me once possestOf what I dare not name.Though charming are your wit and face,'Tis not alone to hear and gazeThat will suffice my flame.Love's infancy on hopes may live,But you to mine full grown must giveOf what I dare not name.When I behold your lips, your eyes,Those snowy breasts that fall and rise,Fanning my raging flame;That shape so made to be embraced;What would I give I might but tasteOf what I dare not name?In Courts I never wish to rise,Both wealth and honour I despise,And that vain breath call'd Fame;By Love I hope no crowns to gain,'Tis something more I would obtain—'Tis that I dare not name.
FromThe Banquet of Music, 1688.
WHY is your faithful slave disdain'd?By gentle arts my heart you gain'd,O keep it by the same.For ever shall my passion last,If you will make me once possestOf what I dare not name.Though charming are your wit and face,'Tis not alone to hear and gazeThat will suffice my flame.Love's infancy on hopes may live,But you to mine full grown must giveOf what I dare not name.When I behold your lips, your eyes,Those snowy breasts that fall and rise,Fanning my raging flame;That shape so made to be embraced;What would I give I might but tasteOf what I dare not name?In Courts I never wish to rise,Both wealth and honour I despise,And that vain breath call'd Fame;By Love I hope no crowns to gain,'Tis something more I would obtain—'Tis that I dare not name.
WHY is your faithful slave disdain'd?By gentle arts my heart you gain'd,O keep it by the same.For ever shall my passion last,If you will make me once possestOf what I dare not name.
Though charming are your wit and face,'Tis not alone to hear and gazeThat will suffice my flame.Love's infancy on hopes may live,But you to mine full grown must giveOf what I dare not name.
When I behold your lips, your eyes,Those snowy breasts that fall and rise,Fanning my raging flame;That shape so made to be embraced;What would I give I might but tasteOf what I dare not name?
In Courts I never wish to rise,Both wealth and honour I despise,And that vain breath call'd Fame;By Love I hope no crowns to gain,'Tis something more I would obtain—'Tis that I dare not name.
FromThe Marrow of Compliments, 1655.The Lover pithily persuading his Mistress to relinquish her virgin resolves.Beauteous Mistress,THOUGH that no God may thee deserve,Yet for thy own sake (whom I serve)Abandon cold Virginity,The Queen of Love's sole enemy.Practise the gesture of a nunWhen your flowery youth is done:Pallas joys in single life'Cause she cannot be a wife.Love then, and be not tyrannous;Heal the heart thou hast wounded thus.Stain not thy youth with avarice;Fair fools love to be counted nice.The corn dies if it be not reapt,Beauty is lost too strictly kept.Come then (dearest) let's not tarry;One day more and we will marry.Which he humbly begs, who is whollyyours not to be disobliged,T. W.
FromThe Marrow of Compliments, 1655.
The Lover pithily persuading his Mistress to relinquish her virgin resolves.
Beauteous Mistress,THOUGH that no God may thee deserve,Yet for thy own sake (whom I serve)Abandon cold Virginity,The Queen of Love's sole enemy.Practise the gesture of a nunWhen your flowery youth is done:Pallas joys in single life'Cause she cannot be a wife.Love then, and be not tyrannous;Heal the heart thou hast wounded thus.Stain not thy youth with avarice;Fair fools love to be counted nice.The corn dies if it be not reapt,Beauty is lost too strictly kept.Come then (dearest) let's not tarry;One day more and we will marry.Which he humbly begs, who is whollyyours not to be disobliged,T. W.
Beauteous Mistress,
THOUGH that no God may thee deserve,Yet for thy own sake (whom I serve)Abandon cold Virginity,The Queen of Love's sole enemy.Practise the gesture of a nunWhen your flowery youth is done:Pallas joys in single life'Cause she cannot be a wife.Love then, and be not tyrannous;Heal the heart thou hast wounded thus.Stain not thy youth with avarice;Fair fools love to be counted nice.The corn dies if it be not reapt,Beauty is lost too strictly kept.Come then (dearest) let's not tarry;One day more and we will marry.Which he humbly begs, who is whollyyours not to be disobliged,T. W.
T. W.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.'TIS[39]not how witty, nor how free,Nor yet how beautiful she be,But how much kind and true to me:Freedom and wit none can confine,And beauty like the sun doth shine,But Kind and True are only thine.Let others with attention sitTo listen and admire her wit;That is a rock where I ne'er split.Let others dote upon her eyesAnd burn their hearts for sacrifice:Beauty's a calm where danger lies.Yet Kind and True have been long tried,A[40]harbour where we may confideAnd safely there at anchor ride:From change of winds there we are free,Nor need we fear storms' tyranny,Nor pirate though a prince he be.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
'TIS[39]not how witty, nor how free,Nor yet how beautiful she be,But how much kind and true to me:Freedom and wit none can confine,And beauty like the sun doth shine,But Kind and True are only thine.Let others with attention sitTo listen and admire her wit;That is a rock where I ne'er split.Let others dote upon her eyesAnd burn their hearts for sacrifice:Beauty's a calm where danger lies.Yet Kind and True have been long tried,A[40]harbour where we may confideAnd safely there at anchor ride:From change of winds there we are free,Nor need we fear storms' tyranny,Nor pirate though a prince he be.
'TIS[39]not how witty, nor how free,Nor yet how beautiful she be,But how much kind and true to me:Freedom and wit none can confine,And beauty like the sun doth shine,But Kind and True are only thine.
Let others with attention sitTo listen and admire her wit;That is a rock where I ne'er split.Let others dote upon her eyesAnd burn their hearts for sacrifice:Beauty's a calm where danger lies.
Yet Kind and True have been long tried,A[40]harbour where we may confideAnd safely there at anchor ride:From change of winds there we are free,Nor need we fear storms' tyranny,Nor pirate though a prince he be.
FromRobert Jones'First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.SWEET Philomel in groves and desarts hauntingOft glads my heart and ears with her sweet chaunting,But then her tunes delight me best,When perched with prick against her breastShe sings "Fy, fy!" as if she suffered wrong,Till, seeming pleased, "Sweet, sweet!" concludes her song.Sweet Jinny sings and talks and sweetly smileth,And with her wanton mirth my griefs beguileth,But then methinks she pleaseth bestWhen, while my hands move love's request,She cries "Fy, fy!" and, seeming loth, gainsays,Till better pleased "Sweet, sweet!" content bewrays.
FromRobert Jones'First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
SWEET Philomel in groves and desarts hauntingOft glads my heart and ears with her sweet chaunting,But then her tunes delight me best,When perched with prick against her breastShe sings "Fy, fy!" as if she suffered wrong,Till, seeming pleased, "Sweet, sweet!" concludes her song.Sweet Jinny sings and talks and sweetly smileth,And with her wanton mirth my griefs beguileth,But then methinks she pleaseth bestWhen, while my hands move love's request,She cries "Fy, fy!" and, seeming loth, gainsays,Till better pleased "Sweet, sweet!" content bewrays.
SWEET Philomel in groves and desarts hauntingOft glads my heart and ears with her sweet chaunting,But then her tunes delight me best,When perched with prick against her breastShe sings "Fy, fy!" as if she suffered wrong,Till, seeming pleased, "Sweet, sweet!" concludes her song.
Sweet Jinny sings and talks and sweetly smileth,And with her wanton mirth my griefs beguileth,But then methinks she pleaseth bestWhen, while my hands move love's request,She cries "Fy, fy!" and, seeming loth, gainsays,Till better pleased "Sweet, sweet!" content bewrays.
FromThe Westminster Drollery. (The Second Part.) 1672.The Valentine.AS youthful day put on his bestAttire to usher mornAnd she to greet her glorious guestDid her fair self adorn,Up did I rise, and hid mine eyesAs I went through the street,Lest I should one that I despiseBefore a fairer meet.And whyWas I,Think you, so nice and fine?Well did I wot(Who wots it not?)It was Saint Valentine.In fields by Phœbus great with youngOf flowers and hopeful buds,Resembling thoughts that freshly sprungIn lovers' lively bloods,A damsel fair and fine I saw,So fair and finely dight,As put my heart almost in aweTo attempt a mate so bright:But OWhy so?Her purpose was like mine,And readilyShe said as I"Good morrow, Valentine."A fair of love we kept a while:She for each word I saidGave me two smiles, and for each smileI her two kisses paid.The violet, made haste to appearTo be her bosom-guest,With first primrose that grew this year,I purchased for[41]her breast:To meGave sheHer golden lock for mine;My ring of jet,For her bracelet,I gave my Valentine.Subscribed with a line of love,My name for her I wrote;In silk for me her name she woveWhereto this was her mot,[42]"As shall this year thy truth appear,I still, my dear, am thine";"Your mate today, and love for aye,If you so say," was mine.While thusOn usEach other's favours shine,"No more have weTo change," quoth she,"Now farewell, Valentine.""Alas," said I, "let friends not seemBetween themselves so strange;The jewels both we dear'st esteemYou know are yet to change."She answers, "No," yet smiles as thoughHer tongue her thought denies;Who truth of maiden's mind will knowMust seek it in her eyes.She blush'd,I wish'dHer heart as free as mine,She sight[43]and sware"In sooth you areToo wanton, Valentine."Yet I such further favour wonBy suit and pleasing play,She vow'd what now was left undoneShould finish'd be in May;And though perplex'd with such delayAs more augments desire,'Twixt present grief and promised joy,I from my mate retire:If sheTo mePreserve her vows divineAnd constant troth,She shall be bothMy love and Valentine.
FromThe Westminster Drollery. (The Second Part.) 1672.
The Valentine.
AS youthful day put on his bestAttire to usher mornAnd she to greet her glorious guestDid her fair self adorn,Up did I rise, and hid mine eyesAs I went through the street,Lest I should one that I despiseBefore a fairer meet.And whyWas I,Think you, so nice and fine?Well did I wot(Who wots it not?)It was Saint Valentine.In fields by Phœbus great with youngOf flowers and hopeful buds,Resembling thoughts that freshly sprungIn lovers' lively bloods,A damsel fair and fine I saw,So fair and finely dight,As put my heart almost in aweTo attempt a mate so bright:But OWhy so?Her purpose was like mine,And readilyShe said as I"Good morrow, Valentine."A fair of love we kept a while:She for each word I saidGave me two smiles, and for each smileI her two kisses paid.The violet, made haste to appearTo be her bosom-guest,With first primrose that grew this year,I purchased for[41]her breast:To meGave sheHer golden lock for mine;My ring of jet,For her bracelet,I gave my Valentine.Subscribed with a line of love,My name for her I wrote;In silk for me her name she woveWhereto this was her mot,[42]"As shall this year thy truth appear,I still, my dear, am thine";"Your mate today, and love for aye,If you so say," was mine.While thusOn usEach other's favours shine,"No more have weTo change," quoth she,"Now farewell, Valentine.""Alas," said I, "let friends not seemBetween themselves so strange;The jewels both we dear'st esteemYou know are yet to change."She answers, "No," yet smiles as thoughHer tongue her thought denies;Who truth of maiden's mind will knowMust seek it in her eyes.She blush'd,I wish'dHer heart as free as mine,She sight[43]and sware"In sooth you areToo wanton, Valentine."Yet I such further favour wonBy suit and pleasing play,She vow'd what now was left undoneShould finish'd be in May;And though perplex'd with such delayAs more augments desire,'Twixt present grief and promised joy,I from my mate retire:If sheTo mePreserve her vows divineAnd constant troth,She shall be bothMy love and Valentine.
AS youthful day put on his bestAttire to usher mornAnd she to greet her glorious guestDid her fair self adorn,Up did I rise, and hid mine eyesAs I went through the street,Lest I should one that I despiseBefore a fairer meet.And whyWas I,Think you, so nice and fine?Well did I wot(Who wots it not?)It was Saint Valentine.
In fields by Phœbus great with youngOf flowers and hopeful buds,Resembling thoughts that freshly sprungIn lovers' lively bloods,A damsel fair and fine I saw,So fair and finely dight,As put my heart almost in aweTo attempt a mate so bright:But OWhy so?Her purpose was like mine,And readilyShe said as I"Good morrow, Valentine."
A fair of love we kept a while:She for each word I saidGave me two smiles, and for each smileI her two kisses paid.The violet, made haste to appearTo be her bosom-guest,With first primrose that grew this year,I purchased for[41]her breast:To meGave sheHer golden lock for mine;My ring of jet,For her bracelet,I gave my Valentine.
Subscribed with a line of love,My name for her I wrote;In silk for me her name she woveWhereto this was her mot,[42]"As shall this year thy truth appear,I still, my dear, am thine";"Your mate today, and love for aye,If you so say," was mine.While thusOn usEach other's favours shine,"No more have weTo change," quoth she,"Now farewell, Valentine."
"Alas," said I, "let friends not seemBetween themselves so strange;The jewels both we dear'st esteemYou know are yet to change."She answers, "No," yet smiles as thoughHer tongue her thought denies;Who truth of maiden's mind will knowMust seek it in her eyes.She blush'd,I wish'dHer heart as free as mine,She sight[43]and sware"In sooth you areToo wanton, Valentine."
Yet I such further favour wonBy suit and pleasing play,She vow'd what now was left undoneShould finish'd be in May;And though perplex'd with such delayAs more augments desire,'Twixt present grief and promised joy,I from my mate retire:If sheTo mePreserve her vows divineAnd constant troth,She shall be bothMy love and Valentine.
FromRawlinson MS. Poet.206.On a Watch Sent to a Gentlewoman.[44]GO and count her better hours,They more happy are than ours.The day that gives her any blissMake it again as long as 'tis;The hour she smiles, O let that beBy thy art increased to three.But if she frown on thee or me,Know night is made by her not thee:Be swift in such an hour and soonMake it night though it be noon,And stay her times who is the freeFair sun that governs thee and me.
FromRawlinson MS. Poet.206.
On a Watch Sent to a Gentlewoman.[44]
GO and count her better hours,They more happy are than ours.The day that gives her any blissMake it again as long as 'tis;The hour she smiles, O let that beBy thy art increased to three.But if she frown on thee or me,Know night is made by her not thee:Be swift in such an hour and soonMake it night though it be noon,And stay her times who is the freeFair sun that governs thee and me.
GO and count her better hours,They more happy are than ours.The day that gives her any blissMake it again as long as 'tis;The hour she smiles, O let that beBy thy art increased to three.But if she frown on thee or me,Know night is made by her not thee:Be swift in such an hour and soonMake it night though it be noon,And stay her times who is the freeFair sun that governs thee and me.
FromWit Restored, 1658.A Song to his Mistress.IWILL not do a sacrificeTo thy face or to thy eyes,Nor unto thy lily palm,Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;But the part to which my heartIn vows is seal'dIs that mine of bliss divineWhich is conceal'd.What's the golden fruit to meIf I may not pluck the tree?Bare enjoying all the restIs but like a golden feast,Which at need can never feedOur love-sick wishes:Let me eat substantial meat,Not view the dishes.
FromWit Restored, 1658.
A Song to his Mistress.
IWILL not do a sacrificeTo thy face or to thy eyes,Nor unto thy lily palm,Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;But the part to which my heartIn vows is seal'dIs that mine of bliss divineWhich is conceal'd.What's the golden fruit to meIf I may not pluck the tree?Bare enjoying all the restIs but like a golden feast,Which at need can never feedOur love-sick wishes:Let me eat substantial meat,Not view the dishes.
IWILL not do a sacrificeTo thy face or to thy eyes,Nor unto thy lily palm,Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;But the part to which my heartIn vows is seal'dIs that mine of bliss divineWhich is conceal'd.
What's the golden fruit to meIf I may not pluck the tree?Bare enjoying all the restIs but like a golden feast,Which at need can never feedOur love-sick wishes:Let me eat substantial meat,Not view the dishes.
FromWit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden, 1674.The Surprising Lover.LOVE, in rambling once astray,Was benighted in his way;With cold and tiresome cares opprest,He creeps in fair Lucina's breastTo shelter there and take his rest.The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,And of an unexpected guess[45]Much less,To come so late,Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,Prepares his arms to try a feat.The deed scarce done, the nymph awakesAnd in the act the youngster takes,Strangely surprised, yet well contented tooThat she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,She liked his presence more and more;Telling him, rather than he should begone,She'd nurse and keep him as her own;And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,She'd find him lodging next her heart.
FromWit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden, 1674.
The Surprising Lover.
LOVE, in rambling once astray,Was benighted in his way;With cold and tiresome cares opprest,He creeps in fair Lucina's breastTo shelter there and take his rest.The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,And of an unexpected guess[45]Much less,To come so late,Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,Prepares his arms to try a feat.The deed scarce done, the nymph awakesAnd in the act the youngster takes,Strangely surprised, yet well contented tooThat she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,She liked his presence more and more;Telling him, rather than he should begone,She'd nurse and keep him as her own;And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,She'd find him lodging next her heart.
LOVE, in rambling once astray,Was benighted in his way;With cold and tiresome cares opprest,He creeps in fair Lucina's breastTo shelter there and take his rest.The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,And of an unexpected guess[45]Much less,To come so late,Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,Prepares his arms to try a feat.The deed scarce done, the nymph awakesAnd in the act the youngster takes,Strangely surprised, yet well contented tooThat she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,She liked his presence more and more;Telling him, rather than he should begone,She'd nurse and keep him as her own;And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,She'd find him lodging next her heart.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.PISH,[46]modest sipper, to't again!My sweetest joy,The wine's not coyAs women are.My dearest puling, prithee then,Prithee, my fair,Once more bedew those lips of thine,Mend thy draught and mend the wine.Since it hath tasted of thy lip(Too quickly cloy'd),How overjoy'dIt cheerfullyInvites thee to another sip.Methinks I seeThe wine perfumed by thee, my fair:Bacchus himself is dabbling there.Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;Bathe that cherryIn the sherry,The jocund wineWhich sweetly smiles and courts thy eyeAs more divine;Though thou take none to drink to me,Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!Well, I perceiveWhy this you leave;My love revealsAnd makes me guess what 'tis you mean:Because at mealsMy lips are kept from kissing thee,Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
PISH,[46]modest sipper, to't again!My sweetest joy,The wine's not coyAs women are.My dearest puling, prithee then,Prithee, my fair,Once more bedew those lips of thine,Mend thy draught and mend the wine.Since it hath tasted of thy lip(Too quickly cloy'd),How overjoy'dIt cheerfullyInvites thee to another sip.Methinks I seeThe wine perfumed by thee, my fair:Bacchus himself is dabbling there.Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;Bathe that cherryIn the sherry,The jocund wineWhich sweetly smiles and courts thy eyeAs more divine;Though thou take none to drink to me,Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!Well, I perceiveWhy this you leave;My love revealsAnd makes me guess what 'tis you mean:Because at mealsMy lips are kept from kissing thee,Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.
PISH,[46]modest sipper, to't again!My sweetest joy,The wine's not coyAs women are.My dearest puling, prithee then,Prithee, my fair,Once more bedew those lips of thine,Mend thy draught and mend the wine.Since it hath tasted of thy lip(Too quickly cloy'd),How overjoy'dIt cheerfullyInvites thee to another sip.Methinks I seeThe wine perfumed by thee, my fair:Bacchus himself is dabbling there.Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;Bathe that cherryIn the sherry,The jocund wineWhich sweetly smiles and courts thy eyeAs more divine;Though thou take none to drink to me,Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!Well, I perceiveWhy this you leave;My love revealsAnd makes me guess what 'tis you mean:Because at mealsMy lips are kept from kissing thee,Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.
FromChoice Drollery, 1656.Against Fruition.THERE is not half so warm a fireIn the fruition as desire.When I have got the fruit of painPossession makes me poor again:Expected forms and shapes unknownWhet and make sharp tentation.Sense is too niggardly for bliss,And pays me dully with what is;But fancy's liberal and gives allThat can within her vastness fall.Veil therefore still, while I divineThe treasure of this hidden mine,And make imagination tellWhat wonders doth in beauty dwell.
FromChoice Drollery, 1656.
Against Fruition.
THERE is not half so warm a fireIn the fruition as desire.When I have got the fruit of painPossession makes me poor again:Expected forms and shapes unknownWhet and make sharp tentation.Sense is too niggardly for bliss,And pays me dully with what is;But fancy's liberal and gives allThat can within her vastness fall.Veil therefore still, while I divineThe treasure of this hidden mine,And make imagination tellWhat wonders doth in beauty dwell.
THERE is not half so warm a fireIn the fruition as desire.When I have got the fruit of painPossession makes me poor again:Expected forms and shapes unknownWhet and make sharp tentation.Sense is too niggardly for bliss,And pays me dully with what is;But fancy's liberal and gives allThat can within her vastness fall.Veil therefore still, while I divineThe treasure of this hidden mine,And make imagination tellWhat wonders doth in beauty dwell.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.To A Young Lady in a Garden.The Rose's Speech.FAIREST, if you roses seek,Take the nearest like your cheek.I, the damask, would presumeTo tender you my sweet perfume;I am young, like you, a bud,Peeping thorough my green hood,Blushing only 'cause I seeFresher roses grow on thee.Crop me then and let me lieIn the sun-shine of thine eyeTill full-blown; then let me growIn thy bosom, next thy snow,That I may find, when my leaves fall,In that sweet place a funeral.Then, Celia, be you like the rose,Who its season wisely chose;Do not keep your maiden flowerBeyond its time, its full ripe hour.Like the rose, you need not offer;But when a worthy hand doth proffer,Refuse not, Celia: on my lifeYou'll wear as fresh when you're a wife.Let not your beauties untouch'd die,Or wither'd and neglected lie;Rather let them thrive i' th' lightOf his am'rous eager sight,That when at last they fall and spreadIt may be sweetly on his bed.
FromThe Bristol Drollery, 1674.
To A Young Lady in a Garden.
The Rose's Speech.
FAIREST, if you roses seek,Take the nearest like your cheek.I, the damask, would presumeTo tender you my sweet perfume;I am young, like you, a bud,Peeping thorough my green hood,Blushing only 'cause I seeFresher roses grow on thee.Crop me then and let me lieIn the sun-shine of thine eyeTill full-blown; then let me growIn thy bosom, next thy snow,That I may find, when my leaves fall,In that sweet place a funeral.Then, Celia, be you like the rose,Who its season wisely chose;Do not keep your maiden flowerBeyond its time, its full ripe hour.Like the rose, you need not offer;But when a worthy hand doth proffer,Refuse not, Celia: on my lifeYou'll wear as fresh when you're a wife.Let not your beauties untouch'd die,Or wither'd and neglected lie;Rather let them thrive i' th' lightOf his am'rous eager sight,That when at last they fall and spreadIt may be sweetly on his bed.
FAIREST, if you roses seek,Take the nearest like your cheek.I, the damask, would presumeTo tender you my sweet perfume;I am young, like you, a bud,Peeping thorough my green hood,Blushing only 'cause I seeFresher roses grow on thee.Crop me then and let me lieIn the sun-shine of thine eyeTill full-blown; then let me growIn thy bosom, next thy snow,That I may find, when my leaves fall,In that sweet place a funeral.Then, Celia, be you like the rose,Who its season wisely chose;Do not keep your maiden flowerBeyond its time, its full ripe hour.Like the rose, you need not offer;But when a worthy hand doth proffer,Refuse not, Celia: on my lifeYou'll wear as fresh when you're a wife.Let not your beauties untouch'd die,Or wither'd and neglected lie;Rather let them thrive i' th' lightOf his am'rous eager sight,That when at last they fall and spreadIt may be sweetly on his bed.
FromThe Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, 1658.Lose no Time.LOSE no time nor youth but beKind to men, as they to thee;The fair lilies that now growIn thy cheeks, and purely show,The cherry and the rose that blow,If too long they hang and waste,Winter comes that all will blast.Thou art ripe, full ripe for men;In thy sweets be gather'd then.
FromThe Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, 1658.
Lose no Time.
LOSE no time nor youth but beKind to men, as they to thee;The fair lilies that now growIn thy cheeks, and purely show,The cherry and the rose that blow,If too long they hang and waste,Winter comes that all will blast.Thou art ripe, full ripe for men;In thy sweets be gather'd then.
LOSE no time nor youth but beKind to men, as they to thee;The fair lilies that now growIn thy cheeks, and purely show,The cherry and the rose that blow,If too long they hang and waste,Winter comes that all will blast.Thou art ripe, full ripe for men;In thy sweets be gather'd then.
FromWestminster Drollery(Second Part), 1672.One and his Mistress a-dying.SHALL we dieBoth thou and I,And leave the world behind us?Come, I say,And let's away,For nobody here doth mind us.Why do we gape?We cannot scapeThe doom that is assign'd us;When we are in grave,Altho' we rave,There is nobody needs to bind us.The clerk shall sing,The sexton ring,And old wives they shall wind us;The priest shall layOur bones in clay,And nobody there shall find us.Farewell wits,And folly's fits,And griefs that often pined us!When we are deadWe'll take no heedWhat nobody says behind us.Merry nights,And false delights,Adieu! ye did but blind us:We must to mould,Both young and old,Till nobody's left behind us.
FromWestminster Drollery(Second Part), 1672.
One and his Mistress a-dying.
SHALL we dieBoth thou and I,And leave the world behind us?Come, I say,And let's away,For nobody here doth mind us.Why do we gape?We cannot scapeThe doom that is assign'd us;When we are in grave,Altho' we rave,There is nobody needs to bind us.The clerk shall sing,The sexton ring,And old wives they shall wind us;The priest shall layOur bones in clay,And nobody there shall find us.Farewell wits,And folly's fits,And griefs that often pined us!When we are deadWe'll take no heedWhat nobody says behind us.Merry nights,And false delights,Adieu! ye did but blind us:We must to mould,Both young and old,Till nobody's left behind us.
SHALL we dieBoth thou and I,And leave the world behind us?Come, I say,And let's away,For nobody here doth mind us.
Why do we gape?We cannot scapeThe doom that is assign'd us;When we are in grave,Altho' we rave,There is nobody needs to bind us.
The clerk shall sing,The sexton ring,And old wives they shall wind us;The priest shall layOur bones in clay,And nobody there shall find us.
Farewell wits,And folly's fits,And griefs that often pined us!When we are deadWe'll take no heedWhat nobody says behind us.
Merry nights,And false delights,Adieu! ye did but blind us:We must to mould,Both young and old,Till nobody's left behind us.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.A health to his Mistress.TO her whose beauty doth excelStory, we toss these cups and sellSobriety a sacrificeTo the bright lustre of her eyes.Each soul that sips here is divine:Her beauty deifies the wine.
FromJohn Cotgrave'sWit's Interpreter, 1655.
A health to his Mistress.
TO her whose beauty doth excelStory, we toss these cups and sellSobriety a sacrificeTo the bright lustre of her eyes.Each soul that sips here is divine:Her beauty deifies the wine.
TO her whose beauty doth excelStory, we toss these cups and sellSobriety a sacrificeTo the bright lustre of her eyes.Each soul that sips here is divine:Her beauty deifies the wine.
FromHarl. MS.6917. fol. 48.A Poem of Sir Walter Rawleigh's.[47]NATURE that wash'd her hands in milkAnd had forgot to dry them,Instead of earth took snow and silkAt Love's request to try them,If she a mistress could composeTo please Love's fancy out of those.Her eyes he would should be of light;A violet breath, and lips of jelly;Her hair not black, nor over-bright;And of the softest down her belly:As for her inside he 'ld have itOnly of wantonness and wit.At Love's entreaty such a oneNature made, but with her beautyShe hath framed a heart of stone;So as Love, by ill destiny,Must die for her whom Nature gave him,Because her darling would not save him.But Time, which Nature doth despise,And rudely gives her love the lie,Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise,His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry;But being made of steel and rust,Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.The light, the belly, lips, and breath,He dims, discolours,[48]and destroys;With those he feeds, but fills not, Death,Which sometimes were the food of joys:Yea Time doth dull each lively wit,And dries all wantonness with it.Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust,Our youth, our joys, and all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wander'd all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.
FromHarl. MS.6917. fol. 48.
A Poem of Sir Walter Rawleigh's.[47]
NATURE that wash'd her hands in milkAnd had forgot to dry them,Instead of earth took snow and silkAt Love's request to try them,If she a mistress could composeTo please Love's fancy out of those.Her eyes he would should be of light;A violet breath, and lips of jelly;Her hair not black, nor over-bright;And of the softest down her belly:As for her inside he 'ld have itOnly of wantonness and wit.At Love's entreaty such a oneNature made, but with her beautyShe hath framed a heart of stone;So as Love, by ill destiny,Must die for her whom Nature gave him,Because her darling would not save him.But Time, which Nature doth despise,And rudely gives her love the lie,Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise,His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry;But being made of steel and rust,Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.The light, the belly, lips, and breath,He dims, discolours,[48]and destroys;With those he feeds, but fills not, Death,Which sometimes were the food of joys:Yea Time doth dull each lively wit,And dries all wantonness with it.Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust,Our youth, our joys, and all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wander'd all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.
NATURE that wash'd her hands in milkAnd had forgot to dry them,Instead of earth took snow and silkAt Love's request to try them,If she a mistress could composeTo please Love's fancy out of those.
Her eyes he would should be of light;A violet breath, and lips of jelly;Her hair not black, nor over-bright;And of the softest down her belly:As for her inside he 'ld have itOnly of wantonness and wit.
At Love's entreaty such a oneNature made, but with her beautyShe hath framed a heart of stone;So as Love, by ill destiny,Must die for her whom Nature gave him,Because her darling would not save him.
But Time, which Nature doth despise,And rudely gives her love the lie,Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise,His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry;But being made of steel and rust,Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.
The light, the belly, lips, and breath,He dims, discolours,[48]and destroys;With those he feeds, but fills not, Death,Which sometimes were the food of joys:Yea Time doth dull each lively wit,And dries all wantonness with it.
Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust,Our youth, our joys, and all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wander'd all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.
FromAdd. MS.2218, fol. 32 (compared with a copy inWit and Drollery, 1661).Cupid's Holiday.LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyesNe'er shot glance but might beseemDiana and her maiden teamOf icy virgins; hence, away!Disturb not our licentious play,For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.Go, glory in the empty nameOf virgin; let your idle flameConsume itself, while we enjoyThose pleasures which fair Venus' boyGrants to those whose mingled thighsAre trophies of his victories,[49]From whence new pleasures still arise.Those only are admitted hereWhose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fearOf man's embraces; whose fair faceCan give enjoyment such a graceAs wipes away the hated nameOf lust, and calls their amorous flameA virtue free from fear or shame.With them we'll number kisses tillWe pose arithmetic, and fillOur hearts with pleasure[50]till it swellsBeyond those bounds where blushing dwells:Then will we ourselves entombIn those joys which fill the womb,Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.At waking no repentance shallWith our past sweetness mingle gall;We'll kiss again till we restoreOur strength again to venture more:Then we'll renew again our play,Admitting of no long delayTill we end our holiday.W. Munsey.[51]
FromAdd. MS.2218, fol. 32 (compared with a copy inWit and Drollery, 1661).
Cupid's Holiday.
LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyesNe'er shot glance but might beseemDiana and her maiden teamOf icy virgins; hence, away!Disturb not our licentious play,For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.Go, glory in the empty nameOf virgin; let your idle flameConsume itself, while we enjoyThose pleasures which fair Venus' boyGrants to those whose mingled thighsAre trophies of his victories,[49]From whence new pleasures still arise.Those only are admitted hereWhose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fearOf man's embraces; whose fair faceCan give enjoyment such a graceAs wipes away the hated nameOf lust, and calls their amorous flameA virtue free from fear or shame.With them we'll number kisses tillWe pose arithmetic, and fillOur hearts with pleasure[50]till it swellsBeyond those bounds where blushing dwells:Then will we ourselves entombIn those joys which fill the womb,Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.At waking no repentance shallWith our past sweetness mingle gall;We'll kiss again till we restoreOur strength again to venture more:Then we'll renew again our play,Admitting of no long delayTill we end our holiday.W. Munsey.[51]
LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyesNe'er shot glance but might beseemDiana and her maiden teamOf icy virgins; hence, away!Disturb not our licentious play,For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.
Go, glory in the empty nameOf virgin; let your idle flameConsume itself, while we enjoyThose pleasures which fair Venus' boyGrants to those whose mingled thighsAre trophies of his victories,[49]From whence new pleasures still arise.
Those only are admitted hereWhose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fearOf man's embraces; whose fair faceCan give enjoyment such a graceAs wipes away the hated nameOf lust, and calls their amorous flameA virtue free from fear or shame.
With them we'll number kisses tillWe pose arithmetic, and fillOur hearts with pleasure[50]till it swellsBeyond those bounds where blushing dwells:Then will we ourselves entombIn those joys which fill the womb,Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.
At waking no repentance shallWith our past sweetness mingle gall;We'll kiss again till we restoreOur strength again to venture more:Then we'll renew again our play,Admitting of no long delayTill we end our holiday.W. Munsey.[51]
W. Munsey.[51]
FromHarl. MS.7332, fol. 47.IN summer-time, when birds do sing,And country maids are making hay,As I went forth myself aloneTo view the meadows fresh and gay,The country maidens I espiedWith fine lawn aprons as white as snow,And crimson ribands about their arms,Which made a pretty country show.The young men fell a-prating,And took the maidens from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.The next day being holiday,And country maids they would be seen,Each took his sweet-heart by the handAnd went to dance upon the green:The country maids incontinent[52]Unto the green assembled were,Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53]Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair:The young men fell a-skipping,The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble]Up and down[54]the green meadow.The old men that had lived longAnd viewed full many a summer's day,Came gently walking by themselvesTo see them keep their holiday:The married men of middle ageBrought forth their wives to see that sport,And they put on their best array,Unto the green they did resort:There music sweetly sounding,The maidens' hearts with joys abounding,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.When they with tumbling well had sweat,And tumbling joys had tasted well,And Phœbus almost lost his heat,Each did return where they did dwell:Their wives unto their husbands saidThe pretty sports which they had seen,Wish'd them to teach them in their bed[55]As did the lovers on the green:The young men joyful-heartedEach took his lass and so departed,When they no more could tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.
FromHarl. MS.7332, fol. 47.
IN summer-time, when birds do sing,And country maids are making hay,As I went forth myself aloneTo view the meadows fresh and gay,The country maidens I espiedWith fine lawn aprons as white as snow,And crimson ribands about their arms,Which made a pretty country show.The young men fell a-prating,And took the maidens from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.The next day being holiday,And country maids they would be seen,Each took his sweet-heart by the handAnd went to dance upon the green:The country maids incontinent[52]Unto the green assembled were,Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53]Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair:The young men fell a-skipping,The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble]Up and down[54]the green meadow.The old men that had lived longAnd viewed full many a summer's day,Came gently walking by themselvesTo see them keep their holiday:The married men of middle ageBrought forth their wives to see that sport,And they put on their best array,Unto the green they did resort:There music sweetly sounding,The maidens' hearts with joys abounding,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.When they with tumbling well had sweat,And tumbling joys had tasted well,And Phœbus almost lost his heat,Each did return where they did dwell:Their wives unto their husbands saidThe pretty sports which they had seen,Wish'd them to teach them in their bed[55]As did the lovers on the green:The young men joyful-heartedEach took his lass and so departed,When they no more could tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.
IN summer-time, when birds do sing,And country maids are making hay,As I went forth myself aloneTo view the meadows fresh and gay,The country maidens I espiedWith fine lawn aprons as white as snow,And crimson ribands about their arms,Which made a pretty country show.The young men fell a-prating,And took the maidens from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.
The next day being holiday,And country maids they would be seen,Each took his sweet-heart by the handAnd went to dance upon the green:The country maids incontinent[52]Unto the green assembled were,Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53]Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair:The young men fell a-skipping,The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble]Up and down[54]the green meadow.
The old men that had lived longAnd viewed full many a summer's day,Came gently walking by themselvesTo see them keep their holiday:The married men of middle ageBrought forth their wives to see that sport,And they put on their best array,Unto the green they did resort:There music sweetly sounding,The maidens' hearts with joys abounding,They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.When they with tumbling well had sweat,And tumbling joys had tasted well,And Phœbus almost lost his heat,Each did return where they did dwell:Their wives unto their husbands saidThe pretty sports which they had seen,Wish'd them to teach them in their bed[55]As did the lovers on the green:The young men joyful-heartedEach took his lass and so departed,When they no more could tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the green meadow.
FromHarleian MS.791, fol. 55.IN summer time when grass was mownAnd country maids were treading of hay,Then forth walked I in a fair morningThinking to pass the time away.Fair lovely nymphs might there be seenWith fine lawn aperns[56]white as snow,And crimson ribbons 'bout their arms,Which made a pretty summer show.There young lovers fell a-prating,And called their lovers from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadow.Then the old wives fell a-laughing,And held their sides with extreme coughing,To see them tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadows.
FromHarleian MS.791, fol. 55.
IN summer time when grass was mownAnd country maids were treading of hay,Then forth walked I in a fair morningThinking to pass the time away.Fair lovely nymphs might there be seenWith fine lawn aperns[56]white as snow,And crimson ribbons 'bout their arms,Which made a pretty summer show.There young lovers fell a-prating,And called their lovers from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadow.Then the old wives fell a-laughing,And held their sides with extreme coughing,To see them tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadows.
IN summer time when grass was mownAnd country maids were treading of hay,Then forth walked I in a fair morningThinking to pass the time away.Fair lovely nymphs might there be seenWith fine lawn aperns[56]white as snow,And crimson ribbons 'bout their arms,Which made a pretty summer show.There young lovers fell a-prating,And called their lovers from hay-makingTo go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadow.Then the old wives fell a-laughing,And held their sides with extreme coughing,To see them tumble, tumble, tumble, tumbleUp and down the meadows.
FromWit Restored, 1658.Women.ONCE I must confess I lovedAnd expected love again,But, so often as I proved,My expectance was in vain.Women joy to be attempted,And do glory when they seeThemselves from love's force exempted,And that men captived be.If they love they can conceal it,And dissemble when they please,Whenas men will straight reveal itAnd make known their heart's disease.Men must beg and crave their favour,Making many an idle vow,Whilst they, froward in behaviour,Fain would yield but know not how.Sweet stol'n-sport to them is grateful,And in heart they wish to have it;Yet they do account it hatefulUpon any terms to crave it.But, would men not go about it,But leave off at all to woo,Ere they would be long without it,They would beg and crave it too.
FromWit Restored, 1658.
Women.
ONCE I must confess I lovedAnd expected love again,But, so often as I proved,My expectance was in vain.Women joy to be attempted,And do glory when they seeThemselves from love's force exempted,And that men captived be.If they love they can conceal it,And dissemble when they please,Whenas men will straight reveal itAnd make known their heart's disease.Men must beg and crave their favour,Making many an idle vow,Whilst they, froward in behaviour,Fain would yield but know not how.Sweet stol'n-sport to them is grateful,And in heart they wish to have it;Yet they do account it hatefulUpon any terms to crave it.But, would men not go about it,But leave off at all to woo,Ere they would be long without it,They would beg and crave it too.
ONCE I must confess I lovedAnd expected love again,But, so often as I proved,My expectance was in vain.
Women joy to be attempted,And do glory when they seeThemselves from love's force exempted,And that men captived be.
If they love they can conceal it,And dissemble when they please,Whenas men will straight reveal itAnd make known their heart's disease.
Men must beg and crave their favour,Making many an idle vow,Whilst they, froward in behaviour,Fain would yield but know not how.
Sweet stol'n-sport to them is grateful,And in heart they wish to have it;Yet they do account it hatefulUpon any terms to crave it.
But, would men not go about it,But leave off at all to woo,Ere they would be long without it,They would beg and crave it too.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.GAZE[57]not on thy beauty's pride,Tender maid, in the false tideThat from lovers' eyes do[th] slide.Let thy faithful crystal showHow thy colours come and go;Beauty takes a foil from woe.Love, that in those smooth streams lies,Under Pity's fair disguise,Will thy melting heart surprise.Nets of Passion's finest thread(Snaring poems) will be spreadAll to catch thy maidenhead.Then beware: for those that cureLove's disease, themselves endureFor a reward a calenture.Rather let the lover pineThan his pale cheek should assignA perpetual blush to thine.
FromThe New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
GAZE[57]not on thy beauty's pride,Tender maid, in the false tideThat from lovers' eyes do[th] slide.Let thy faithful crystal showHow thy colours come and go;Beauty takes a foil from woe.Love, that in those smooth streams lies,Under Pity's fair disguise,Will thy melting heart surprise.Nets of Passion's finest thread(Snaring poems) will be spreadAll to catch thy maidenhead.Then beware: for those that cureLove's disease, themselves endureFor a reward a calenture.Rather let the lover pineThan his pale cheek should assignA perpetual blush to thine.
GAZE[57]not on thy beauty's pride,Tender maid, in the false tideThat from lovers' eyes do[th] slide.
Let thy faithful crystal showHow thy colours come and go;Beauty takes a foil from woe.
Love, that in those smooth streams lies,Under Pity's fair disguise,Will thy melting heart surprise.
Nets of Passion's finest thread(Snaring poems) will be spreadAll to catch thy maidenhead.
Then beware: for those that cureLove's disease, themselves endureFor a reward a calenture.
Rather let the lover pineThan his pale cheek should assignA perpetual blush to thine.
FromWit's Recreations, 1640.Love Begotten by Pity.'TIS true your beauty,[58]which beforeDid dazzle each bold gazer's eye,And forced e'en rebel hearts t' adoreOr from its conquering splendor fly,Now shines with new increase of light,Like Cynthia at her full most bright.Yet, though you glory in th' increaseOf so much beauty, dearest fair,They err who think this great access,Of which all eyes th' admirers are,Or art's or nature's gifts should be:Learn then the hidden cause from me.Pity in thee, in me desireFirst bred: before I durst but aimAt fair respect: now that close fireThy love hath fann'd into a flame,Which, mounting to its proper place,Shines like a glory 'bout thy face.
FromWit's Recreations, 1640.
Love Begotten by Pity.
'TIS true your beauty,[58]which beforeDid dazzle each bold gazer's eye,And forced e'en rebel hearts t' adoreOr from its conquering splendor fly,Now shines with new increase of light,Like Cynthia at her full most bright.Yet, though you glory in th' increaseOf so much beauty, dearest fair,They err who think this great access,Of which all eyes th' admirers are,Or art's or nature's gifts should be:Learn then the hidden cause from me.Pity in thee, in me desireFirst bred: before I durst but aimAt fair respect: now that close fireThy love hath fann'd into a flame,Which, mounting to its proper place,Shines like a glory 'bout thy face.
'TIS true your beauty,[58]which beforeDid dazzle each bold gazer's eye,And forced e'en rebel hearts t' adoreOr from its conquering splendor fly,Now shines with new increase of light,Like Cynthia at her full most bright.
Yet, though you glory in th' increaseOf so much beauty, dearest fair,They err who think this great access,Of which all eyes th' admirers are,Or art's or nature's gifts should be:Learn then the hidden cause from me.
Pity in thee, in me desireFirst bred: before I durst but aimAt fair respect: now that close fireThy love hath fann'd into a flame,Which, mounting to its proper place,Shines like a glory 'bout thy face.
FromThe Windsor Drollery, 1672.BE[59]thou joyful, I am jolly;In thy pleasure's my delight.Art th' inclined to melancholy?I am of that humour right;For I can joy, or joys can slight.Art thou liberal of embraces?I can also lavish be.Or dost thou scorn to yield such graces?I can scorn as well as thee:Of these I can be nice or free.Dost thou joy I should attain thee?Then I will thy servant be;Or if my presence do disdain thee,I will never wait on thee;For I can love or let thee be.If to singing thou'lt apply thee,I can warble notes to thee:Or if to[60]sighing, I'll sigh by thee;To thy passions I'll agree,For I'm to all thy humours free.Dost thou joy I should come near theeWith a heart both firm and true?Or dost thou fly my sight and jeer me?Unto lovers that's not new;For I can stay or bid adieu.
FromThe Windsor Drollery, 1672.
BE[59]thou joyful, I am jolly;In thy pleasure's my delight.Art th' inclined to melancholy?I am of that humour right;For I can joy, or joys can slight.Art thou liberal of embraces?I can also lavish be.Or dost thou scorn to yield such graces?I can scorn as well as thee:Of these I can be nice or free.Dost thou joy I should attain thee?Then I will thy servant be;Or if my presence do disdain thee,I will never wait on thee;For I can love or let thee be.If to singing thou'lt apply thee,I can warble notes to thee:Or if to[60]sighing, I'll sigh by thee;To thy passions I'll agree,For I'm to all thy humours free.Dost thou joy I should come near theeWith a heart both firm and true?Or dost thou fly my sight and jeer me?Unto lovers that's not new;For I can stay or bid adieu.
BE[59]thou joyful, I am jolly;In thy pleasure's my delight.Art th' inclined to melancholy?I am of that humour right;For I can joy, or joys can slight.
Art thou liberal of embraces?I can also lavish be.Or dost thou scorn to yield such graces?I can scorn as well as thee:Of these I can be nice or free.
Dost thou joy I should attain thee?Then I will thy servant be;Or if my presence do disdain thee,I will never wait on thee;For I can love or let thee be.
If to singing thou'lt apply thee,I can warble notes to thee:Or if to[60]sighing, I'll sigh by thee;To thy passions I'll agree,For I'm to all thy humours free.
Dost thou joy I should come near theeWith a heart both firm and true?Or dost thou fly my sight and jeer me?Unto lovers that's not new;For I can stay or bid adieu.