Come live with me, and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,Woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of roses,And a thousand fragrant posies:A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull;Fair lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning.If these delights thy mind may move,Come live with me and be my love.
Come live with me, and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,And a thousand fragrant posies:A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull;Fair lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning.If these delights thy mind may move,Come live with me and be my love.
Christopher Marlowe.
[See "The Shepherdess's Reply to The Passionate Pilgrim," page 22.]
LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swainAscend to heaven, in honour of my Love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyesTill heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swainAscend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyesTill heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
J. Sylvester.
A PARTING; OR, LOVE'S LAST CHANCE.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part:Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so clearly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And, when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes;Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part:Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so clearly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And, when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes;Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.
Michael Drayton.
WHO IS SILVIA?
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she:The heavens such grace did lend her,That she might admired be.Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repairTo help him of his blindness,And, being helped, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she:The heavens such grace did lend her,That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repairTo help him of his blindness,And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare.
SIGH NO MORE, LADIES.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so,But let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto, Hey nonny, nonny.Sing no more ditties, sing no moeOf dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leafy.Then sigh not so,But let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so,But let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moeOf dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leafy.Then sigh not so,But let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto, Hey nonny, nonny.
William Shakespeare.
A MORNING SONG FOR IMOGEN.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phœbus 'gins arise';His steeds to water at those springsOn chalic'd flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty is,My lady sweet arise:Arise, arise.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phœbus 'gins arise';His steeds to water at those springsOn chalic'd flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty is,My lady sweet arise:Arise, arise.
William Shakespeare.
THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.
While that the sun with his beams hotScorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain,Philon the shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain,In shadow of a green oak treeUpon his pipe this song play'd he:Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.So long as I was in your sightI was your heart, your soul, and treasure;And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'dBurning in flames beyond all measure:—Three days endured your love to me,And it was lost in other three!Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Another Shepherd you did seeTo whom your heart was soon enchainèd;Full soon your love was leapt from me,Full soon my place he had obtainèd.Soon came a third, your love to win,And we were out and he was in.Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Sure you have made me passing gladThat you your mind so soon removèd,Before that I the leisure hadTo choose you for my best belovèd:For all your love was past and doneTwo days before it was begun:—Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
While that the sun with his beams hotScorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain,Philon the shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain,In shadow of a green oak treeUpon his pipe this song play'd he:Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
So long as I was in your sightI was your heart, your soul, and treasure;And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'dBurning in flames beyond all measure:—Three days endured your love to me,And it was lost in other three!Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another Shepherd you did seeTo whom your heart was soon enchainèd;Full soon your love was leapt from me,Full soon my place he had obtainèd.Soon came a third, your love to win,And we were out and he was in.Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing gladThat you your mind so soon removèd,Before that I the leisure hadTo choose you for my best belovèd:For all your love was past and doneTwo days before it was begun:—Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Anon., circa 1564.
TRUE LOVELINESS.
It is not Beauty I demand,A crystal brow, the moon's despair,Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:Tell me not of your starry eyes,Your lips that seem on roses fed,Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,A breath that softer music speaksThan summer winds a-wooing flowers,These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?Coral beneath the ocean-stream,Whose brink when your adventurer slips,Full oft he perisheth on them.And what are cheeks, but ensigns oftThat wave hot youth to fields of blood?Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,Do Greece or Ilium any good?Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;There's many a white hand holds an urnWith lovers' hearts to dust consumed.For crystal brows there's nought within,They are but empty cells for pride;He who the Siren's hair would winIs mostly strangled in the tide.Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,A tender heart, a loyal mind,Which with temptation I would trust,Yet never link'd with error find,—One in whose gentle bosom ICould pour my secret heart of woes,Like the care-burthen'd honey-flyThat hides his murmurs in the rose,—My earthly Comforter! whose loveSo indefeasible might be,That when my spirit wonn'd above,Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
It is not Beauty I demand,A crystal brow, the moon's despair,Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes,Your lips that seem on roses fed,Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,A breath that softer music speaksThan summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?Coral beneath the ocean-stream,Whose brink when your adventurer slips,Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oftThat wave hot youth to fields of blood?Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;There's many a white hand holds an urnWith lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there's nought within,They are but empty cells for pride;He who the Siren's hair would winIs mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,A tender heart, a loyal mind,Which with temptation I would trust,Yet never link'd with error find,—
One in whose gentle bosom ICould pour my secret heart of woes,Like the care-burthen'd honey-flyThat hides his murmurs in the rose,—
My earthly Comforter! whose loveSo indefeasible might be,That when my spirit wonn'd above,Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
Anon.
A WOMAN'S REASON.
Love me not for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part;No! nor for my constant heart,—For these may fail, or turn to ill;So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,And love me well, but know not why.So hast thou the same reason stillTo dote upon me ever!
Love me not for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part;No! nor for my constant heart,—For these may fail, or turn to ill;So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,And love me well, but know not why.So hast thou the same reason stillTo dote upon me ever!
Anon.
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.
Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey;Over rocks that are steepest,Love will find out the way.Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie;Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not venture,Lest herself fast she lay;If love come, he will enterAnd soon find out his way.You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward for his flight;But if she whom Love doth honourBe concealed from the day,Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.Some think to lose himBy having him confin'd,And some do suppose him,Poor thing, to be blind;But if ne'er so close you wall him,Do the best that you may;Blind Love, if so ye call him,Will find out his way.You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe Phœnix of the East;The lioness, you may move herTo give o'er her prey;But you will never stop a lover—He will find out his way.
Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey;Over rocks that are steepest,Love will find out the way.
Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie;Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not venture,Lest herself fast she lay;If love come, he will enterAnd soon find out his way.
You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward for his flight;But if she whom Love doth honourBe concealed from the day,Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose himBy having him confin'd,And some do suppose him,Poor thing, to be blind;But if ne'er so close you wall him,Do the best that you may;Blind Love, if so ye call him,Will find out his way.
You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe Phœnix of the East;The lioness, you may move herTo give o'er her prey;But you will never stop a lover—He will find out his way.
Anon.
PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME.
Oh, what a plague is love!I cannot bear it,She will inconstant prove,I greatly fear it;It so torments my mind,That my heart faileth,She wavers with the wind,As a ship saileth;Please her the best I may,She looks another way;Alack and well a-day!Phillida flouts me.I often heard her sayThat she loved posies:In the last month of MayI gave her roses,Cowslips and gillyflow'rsAnd the sweet lily,I got to deck the bow'rsOf my dear Philly;She did them all disdain,And threw them back again;Therefore, 'tis flat and plainPhillida flouts me.Which way soe'er I go,She still torments me;And whatsoe'er I do,Nothing contents me:I fade, and pine awayWith grief and sorrow;I fall quite to decay,Like any shadow;Since 'twill no better be,I'll bear it patiently;Yet all the world may seePhillida flouts me.
Oh, what a plague is love!I cannot bear it,She will inconstant prove,I greatly fear it;It so torments my mind,That my heart faileth,She wavers with the wind,As a ship saileth;Please her the best I may,She looks another way;Alack and well a-day!Phillida flouts me.
I often heard her sayThat she loved posies:In the last month of MayI gave her roses,Cowslips and gillyflow'rsAnd the sweet lily,I got to deck the bow'rsOf my dear Philly;She did them all disdain,And threw them back again;Therefore, 'tis flat and plainPhillida flouts me.
Which way soe'er I go,She still torments me;And whatsoe'er I do,Nothing contents me:I fade, and pine awayWith grief and sorrow;I fall quite to decay,Like any shadow;Since 'twill no better be,I'll bear it patiently;Yet all the world may seePhillida flouts me.
Circa 1610.
IN PRAISE OF TWO.
Faustina hath the fairest face,And Phillida the better grace;Both have mine eye enriched:This sings full sweetly with her voice;Her fingers make so sweet a noise:Both have mine ear bewitched.Ah me! sith Fates have so provided,My heart, alas! must be divided.
Faustina hath the fairest face,And Phillida the better grace;Both have mine eye enriched:This sings full sweetly with her voice;Her fingers make so sweet a noise:Both have mine ear bewitched.Ah me! sith Fates have so provided,My heart, alas! must be divided.
Anon.
TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS.
I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could speak, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now alone,As worthy to be loved by none.I do confess thou'rt sweet, but findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the wind,That kisses everything it meets;And since thou can with more than one,Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.The morning rose that untouch'd stands,Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells;But, pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,Her sweet no longer with her dwells.But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.Such fate ere long will thee betide,When thou hast handled been a while;Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;—And I will sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love for more than oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could speak, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now alone,As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet, but findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the wind,That kisses everything it meets;And since thou can with more than one,Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.
The morning rose that untouch'd stands,Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells;But, pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,Her sweet no longer with her dwells.But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,When thou hast handled been a while;Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;—And I will sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love for more than oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
Sir Robert Aytoun.
ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.
I Lov'd thee once, I'll love no more,Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wert before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unlov'd again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away.Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,If thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom did recall,That if thou might elsewhere inthral;And then how could I but disdainA captive's captive to remain?When new desires had conquer'd thee,And chang'd the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy to love thee still.Yea it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so,Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.Yet do thou glory in thy choice,Thy choice of his good fortune's boast;I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost;The height of my disdain shall be,To laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging to a beggar's door.
I Lov'd thee once, I'll love no more,Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wert before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unlov'd again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away.
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,If thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom did recall,That if thou might elsewhere inthral;And then how could I but disdainA captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquer'd thee,And chang'd the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy to love thee still.Yea it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so,Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice,Thy choice of his good fortune's boast;I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost;The height of my disdain shall be,To laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging to a beggar's door.
Sir Robert Aytoun.
THE THREE STATES OF WOMAN.
In a maiden-time profess'd,Then we say that life is bless'd;Tasting once the married life,Then we only praise the wife;There's but one state more to try,Which makes women laugh or cry—Widow, widow: of these threeThe middle's best, and that give me.
In a maiden-time profess'd,Then we say that life is bless'd;Tasting once the married life,Then we only praise the wife;There's but one state more to try,Which makes women laugh or cry—Widow, widow: of these threeThe middle's best, and that give me.
Thomas Middleton.
MY LOVE AND I MUST PART.
Weep eyes, break heart!My love and I must part.Cruel fates true love do soonest sever;O, I shall see thee never, never, never!O, happy is the maid whose life takes endEre it knows parent's frown or loss of friend!Weep eyes, break heart!My love and I must part.
Weep eyes, break heart!My love and I must part.Cruel fates true love do soonest sever;O, I shall see thee never, never, never!O, happy is the maid whose life takes endEre it knows parent's frown or loss of friend!Weep eyes, break heart!My love and I must part.
Thomas Middleton.
PERFECT BEAUTY.
It was a beauty that I saw,So pure, so perfect, as the frameOf all the universe was lame,To that one figure, could I draw,Or give least line of it a law!A skein of silk without a knot,A fair march made without a halt,A curious form without a fault,A printed book without a blot,All beauty, and without a spot!
It was a beauty that I saw,So pure, so perfect, as the frameOf all the universe was lame,To that one figure, could I draw,Or give least line of it a law!A skein of silk without a knot,A fair march made without a halt,A curious form without a fault,A printed book without a blot,All beauty, and without a spot!
Ben Jonson.
TO CELIA.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be:But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee!
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be:But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee!
Ben Jonson.
A WOMAN'S CONSTANCY.
Now thou hast loved me one whole day,To-morrow, when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?Wilt thou then ante-date some new-made vow?Or say, that nowWe are not just those persons which we were?Or, that oaths made in reverential fearOf Love and his wrath any may forswear?Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,So lovers' contracts, images of those,Bind but till Sleep, Death's image, them unloose?Or, your own end to justifyFor having purposed change and falsehood, youCan have no way but falsehood to be true?Vain lunatic! Against these scapes I couldDispute and conquer if I would;Which I abstain to do;For, by to-morrow, I may think so too.
Now thou hast loved me one whole day,To-morrow, when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?Wilt thou then ante-date some new-made vow?Or say, that nowWe are not just those persons which we were?Or, that oaths made in reverential fearOf Love and his wrath any may forswear?Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,So lovers' contracts, images of those,Bind but till Sleep, Death's image, them unloose?Or, your own end to justifyFor having purposed change and falsehood, youCan have no way but falsehood to be true?Vain lunatic! Against these scapes I couldDispute and conquer if I would;Which I abstain to do;For, by to-morrow, I may think so too.
Dr. John Donne.
SWEETEST LOVE.
Sweetest love, I do not goFor weariness of thee,Nor in hope the world can showA fitter love for me.But since that IMust die at last, 'tis bestThus to use myself in jestBy feigned death to die.Yester-night the sun went hence,And yet is here to-day;He hath no desire nor sense,Nor half so short a way:Then fear not me,But believe that I shall makeHastier journeys, since I takeMore wings and spurs than he.
Sweetest love, I do not goFor weariness of thee,Nor in hope the world can showA fitter love for me.But since that IMust die at last, 'tis bestThus to use myself in jestBy feigned death to die.
Yester-night the sun went hence,And yet is here to-day;He hath no desire nor sense,Nor half so short a way:Then fear not me,But believe that I shall makeHastier journeys, since I takeMore wings and spurs than he.
Dr. John Donne.
TO AURORA.
O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;Then would'st thou melt the ice out of thy breast,And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.O, if thy pride did not our joys control,What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moanNor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone:No, I would have my share in what were thine:And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,This happy harmony would make them none.
O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;Then would'st thou melt the ice out of thy breast,And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.O, if thy pride did not our joys control,What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moanNor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone:No, I would have my share in what were thine:And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,This happy harmony would make them none.
W. Alexander, Earl of Stirling.
PHILLIS.
In petticoat of green,Her hair about her eyne,Phillis, beneath an oak,Sat milking her fair flock.'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight!Her hand seem'd milk, in milk it was so white.
In petticoat of green,Her hair about her eyne,Phillis, beneath an oak,Sat milking her fair flock.'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight!Her hand seem'd milk, in milk it was so white.
William Drummond.
TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.
Take, O, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again, bring again;Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,Which thy frozen bosom bears,On whose tops the pinks that growAre of those that April wears;But first set my poor heart free,Bound in icy chains by thee.
Take, O, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again, bring again;Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.
Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,Which thy frozen bosom bears,On whose tops the pinks that growAre of those that April wears;But first set my poor heart free,Bound in icy chains by thee.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
TELL ME, WHAT IS LOVE?
Tell me, dearest, what is love?'Tis a lightning from above,'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,'Tis a boy they call Desire.'Tis a graveGapes to haveThose poor fools that long to prove.Tell me more, are women true?Yes, some are, and some as you;Some are willing, some are strange,Since you men first taught to change.And till truthBe in bothAll shall love to love anew.Tell me more yet, can they grieve?Yes, and sicken sore, but live:And be wise and delay,When you men are as wise as they.Then I seeFaith will beNever till they both believe.
Tell me, dearest, what is love?'Tis a lightning from above,'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,'Tis a boy they call Desire.'Tis a graveGapes to haveThose poor fools that long to prove.
Tell me more, are women true?Yes, some are, and some as you;Some are willing, some are strange,Since you men first taught to change.And till truthBe in bothAll shall love to love anew.
Tell me more yet, can they grieve?Yes, and sicken sore, but live:And be wise and delay,When you men are as wise as they.Then I seeFaith will beNever till they both believe.
Francis Beaumont.
PINING FOR LOVE.
How long shall I pine for love?How long shall I sue in vain?How long like the turtle-dove,Shall I heartily thus complain?Shall the sails of my heart stand still?Shall the grists of my hope be unground?Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,Let the mill, let the mill go round.
How long shall I pine for love?How long shall I sue in vain?How long like the turtle-dove,Shall I heartily thus complain?Shall the sails of my heart stand still?Shall the grists of my hope be unground?Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,Let the mill, let the mill go round.
Francis Beaumont.
FIE ON LOVE.
Now fie on foolish love, it not befitsOr man or woman know it.Love was not meant for people in their wits,And they that fondly show itBetray the straw, and features in their brain,And shall have Bedlam for their pain:If simple love be such a curse,To marry is to make it ten times worse.
Now fie on foolish love, it not befitsOr man or woman know it.Love was not meant for people in their wits,And they that fondly show itBetray the straw, and features in their brain,And shall have Bedlam for their pain:If simple love be such a curse,To marry is to make it ten times worse.
Francis Beaumont.
DAMŒTAS' PRAISE OF HIS DAPHNIS.
Tune on my pipe the praises of my love,Love fair and bright;Fill earth with sound, and airy heavens above,Heavens Jove's delight,With Daphnis' praise.Her tresses are like wires of beaten gold,Gold bright and sheen;Like Nisus' golden hair that Scylla poll'd,Scyll o'erseenThrough Minos' love.Her eyes like shining lamps in midst of night,Night dark and dead:Or as the stars that give the seamen light,Light for to leadTheir wandering ships.Amidst her cheeks the rose and lily strive,Lily snow-white:When their contést doth make their colour thrive,Colour too brightFor shepherds' eyes.Her lips like scarlet of the finest dye,Scarlet blood-red:Teeth white as snow, which on the hills do lie,Hills overspreadBy winter's force.Her skin as soft as is the finest silk,Silk soft and fine:Of colour like unto the whitest milk,Milk of the kineOf Daphnis' herd.As swift of foot as is the pretty roe,Roe swift of pace:When yelping hounds pursue her to and fro,Hounds fierce in chaseTo reave her life.Cease to tell of any more compare,Compares too rude,Daphnis' deserts and beauty are too rare:Then here concludeFair Daphnis' praise.
Tune on my pipe the praises of my love,Love fair and bright;Fill earth with sound, and airy heavens above,Heavens Jove's delight,With Daphnis' praise.
Her tresses are like wires of beaten gold,Gold bright and sheen;Like Nisus' golden hair that Scylla poll'd,Scyll o'erseenThrough Minos' love.
Her eyes like shining lamps in midst of night,Night dark and dead:Or as the stars that give the seamen light,Light for to leadTheir wandering ships.
Amidst her cheeks the rose and lily strive,Lily snow-white:When their contést doth make their colour thrive,Colour too brightFor shepherds' eyes.
Her lips like scarlet of the finest dye,Scarlet blood-red:Teeth white as snow, which on the hills do lie,Hills overspreadBy winter's force.
Her skin as soft as is the finest silk,Silk soft and fine:Of colour like unto the whitest milk,Milk of the kineOf Daphnis' herd.
As swift of foot as is the pretty roe,Roe swift of pace:When yelping hounds pursue her to and fro,Hounds fierce in chaseTo reave her life.
Cease to tell of any more compare,Compares too rude,Daphnis' deserts and beauty are too rare:Then here concludeFair Daphnis' praise.
John Wootton.
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or my cheeks make pale with care,'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flowery meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?Shall my foolish heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind;Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her merit's value known,Make me quite forget mine own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of Best;If she seem not such to me,What care I how good she be?'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?Those that bear a noble mind,Where they want, of riches find.Think what with them they would doWho without them dare to woo:And unless that mind I see,What care I tho' great she be?Great or good, or kind or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or my cheeks make pale with care,'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flowery meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind;Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her merit's value known,Make me quite forget mine own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of Best;If she seem not such to me,What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?Those that bear a noble mind,Where they want, of riches find.Think what with them they would doWho without them dare to woo:And unless that mind I see,What care I tho' great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
George Wither.
TO ONE WHO, WHEN I PRAISED MY MISTRESS'S BEAUTY, SAID I WAS BLIND.
Wonder not, though I am blind,For you must beDark in your eyes, or in your mind,If, when you seeHer face, you prove not blind like me;If the powerful beams that flyFrom her eye,And those amorous sweets that lieScatter'd in each neighbouring part,Find a passage to your heart,Then you'll confess your mortal sightToo weak for such a glorious light:For if her graces you discover,You grow, like me, a dazzled lover;But if those beauties you not spy,Then are you blinder far than I.
Wonder not, though I am blind,For you must beDark in your eyes, or in your mind,If, when you seeHer face, you prove not blind like me;If the powerful beams that flyFrom her eye,And those amorous sweets that lieScatter'd in each neighbouring part,Find a passage to your heart,Then you'll confess your mortal sightToo weak for such a glorious light:For if her graces you discover,You grow, like me, a dazzled lover;But if those beauties you not spy,Then are you blinder far than I.
Thomas Carew.
HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK
He that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires;As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires;Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
He that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires;As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires;Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
Thomas Carew.
MATIN SONG.