Rise, Lady Mistress! rise!The night hath tedious been;No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes,Nor slumbers made me sin.Is not she a saint, then, say!Thought of whom keeps sin away?Rise, madam! rise, and give me light,Whom darkness still will cover,And ignorance, more dark than night,Till thou smile on thy lover.All want day till thy beauty rise,For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.
Rise, Lady Mistress! rise!The night hath tedious been;No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes,Nor slumbers made me sin.Is not she a saint, then, say!Thought of whom keeps sin away?
Rise, madam! rise, and give me light,Whom darkness still will cover,And ignorance, more dark than night,Till thou smile on thy lover.All want day till thy beauty rise,For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.
Nathaniel Field.
JULIA.
Some asked me where the rubies grew,And nothing did I say,But with my finger pointed toThe lips of Julia.Some asked how pearls did grow, and where;Then spake I to my girl,To part her lips and show me thereThe quarelets of pearl.One asked me where the roses grew;I bade him not go seek,But forthwith bade my Julia showA bud in either cheek.
Some asked me where the rubies grew,And nothing did I say,But with my finger pointed toThe lips of Julia.
Some asked how pearls did grow, and where;Then spake I to my girl,To part her lips and show me thereThe quarelets of pearl.
One asked me where the roses grew;I bade him not go seek,But forthwith bade my Julia showA bud in either cheek.
Robert Herrick.
CHERRY RIPE.
"Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe," I cry,"Full and fair ones—come and buy;"If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, "There,Where my Julia's lips do smile;"There's the land, or cherry-isle,Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow!
"Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe," I cry,"Full and fair ones—come and buy;"If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, "There,Where my Julia's lips do smile;"There's the land, or cherry-isle,Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow!
Robert Herrick.
TO THE VIRGINS.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he's a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse and worstTimes still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time,And while ye may, go marry;For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he's a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse and worstTimes still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,And while ye may, go marry;For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
Robert Herrick.
TO ELECTRA.
I dare not ask a kiss;I dare not beg a smile;Lest having that or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall be,Only to kiss that airThat lately kissèd thee.
I dare not ask a kiss;I dare not beg a smile;Lest having that or this,I might grow proud the while.
No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall be,Only to kiss that airThat lately kissèd thee.
Robert Herrick.
DRY THOSE EYES.
Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,Which like growing fountains riseTo drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooksWould better flow in furrow'd looks:Thy lovely face was never meantTo be the shore of discontent.Then clear those waterish stars again,Which else portend a lasting rain;Lest the clouds which settle thereProlong my winter all the year,And thy example others makeIn love with sorrow, for thy sake.
Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,Which like growing fountains riseTo drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooksWould better flow in furrow'd looks:Thy lovely face was never meantTo be the shore of discontent.
Then clear those waterish stars again,Which else portend a lasting rain;Lest the clouds which settle thereProlong my winter all the year,And thy example others makeIn love with sorrow, for thy sake.
Dr. Henry King.
LOVE'S CONSTANCY.
Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again;Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love;Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain;Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove.Dear, sweet, fair, wise,—change, shrink, nor be not weak;And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move;Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you.
Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again;Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love;Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain;Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove.Dear, sweet, fair, wise,—change, shrink, nor be not weak;And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.
Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move;Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you.
John Dowland.
FAREWELL, MY JOY.
Farewell! my joy!Adieu! my love and pleasure!To sport and toyWe have no longer leisure.Fa la la!Farewell! adieu!Until our next consorting!Sweet love, be true!And thus we end our sporting.Fa la la!
Farewell! my joy!Adieu! my love and pleasure!To sport and toyWe have no longer leisure.Fa la la!
Farewell! adieu!Until our next consorting!Sweet love, be true!And thus we end our sporting.Fa la la!
Thomas Weelkes.
THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WAT'RY NEST.
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And climbing, shakes his dewy wings,He takes your window for the east,And to implore your light, he sings;Awake, awake, the morn will never riseTill she can dress her beauty at your eyes.The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And climbing, shakes his dewy wings,He takes your window for the east,And to implore your light, he sings;Awake, awake, the morn will never riseTill she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
Sir William Davenant.
GO, LOVELY ROSE.
Go, lovely Rose,Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knowsWhen I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That had'st thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareWho are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Go, lovely Rose,Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knowsWhen I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That had'st thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareWho are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Edmund Waller.
HIS MISTRESS.
I have a mistress, for perfections rareIn every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice.And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin,Still her perfection lets religion in.We sit and talk, and kiss away the hoursAs chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers.I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
I have a mistress, for perfections rareIn every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice.And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin,Still her perfection lets religion in.We sit and talk, and kiss away the hoursAs chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers.I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
Thomas Randolph.
CHLORIS.
Amyntas, go! Thou art undone,Thy faithful heart is crossed by fate;That love is better not begun,Where love is come to love too late.Yet who that saw fair Chloris weepSuch sacred dew, with such pure grace,Durst think them feignèd tears, or seekFor treason in an angel's face.
Amyntas, go! Thou art undone,Thy faithful heart is crossed by fate;That love is better not begun,Where love is come to love too late.
Yet who that saw fair Chloris weepSuch sacred dew, with such pure grace,Durst think them feignèd tears, or seekFor treason in an angel's face.
Henry Vaughan.
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG.
Love me little, love me long,Is the burden of my song;Love that is too hot and strongBurneth soon to waste;Still I would not have thee cold,Or backward, or too bold,For love that lasteth till 'tis oldFadeth not in haste.Winter's cold, or summer's heat,Autumn tempests on it beat,It can never know defeat,Never can rebel;Such the love that I would gain,Such love, I tell thee plain,That thou must give or love in vain,So to thee farewell.
Love me little, love me long,Is the burden of my song;Love that is too hot and strongBurneth soon to waste;Still I would not have thee cold,Or backward, or too bold,For love that lasteth till 'tis oldFadeth not in haste.
Winter's cold, or summer's heat,Autumn tempests on it beat,It can never know defeat,Never can rebel;Such the love that I would gain,Such love, I tell thee plain,That thou must give or love in vain,So to thee farewell.
Circa 1610.
FAIN WOULD I CHANGE THAT NOTE.
Fain would I change that noteTo which fond love hath charm'd me,Long, long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm'd me:Yet when this thought doth come,"Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,"I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.O Love, they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and blissWhere truest pleasure is,I do adore thee;I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee.
Fain would I change that noteTo which fond love hath charm'd me,Long, long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm'd me:Yet when this thought doth come,"Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,"I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.
O Love, they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and blissWhere truest pleasure is,I do adore thee;I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee.
Captain Tobias Hume.
TO ROSES IN CASTARA'S BREAST.
Ye blushing Virgins happy areIn the chaste Nunn'ry of her breasts,For he'd profane so chaste a fair,Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.Transplanted thus how bright ye grow,How rich a perfume do ye yield?In some close garden, cowslips soAre sweeter than in th' open field.In those white Cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath,Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be;There wants no marble for a tomb,Whose breast hath marble been to me.
Ye blushing Virgins happy areIn the chaste Nunn'ry of her breasts,For he'd profane so chaste a fair,Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow,How rich a perfume do ye yield?In some close garden, cowslips soAre sweeter than in th' open field.
In those white Cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath,Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be;There wants no marble for a tomb,Whose breast hath marble been to me.
William Habington.
THOU PRETTY BIRD.
Thou pretty bird, how do I seeThy silly state and mine agree!For thou a prisoner art;So is my heart.Thou sing'st to her, and so do I addressMy music to her ear that's merciless;But herein doth the difference lie,—That thou art graced; so am not I;Thou singing livest, and I must singing die.
Thou pretty bird, how do I seeThy silly state and mine agree!For thou a prisoner art;So is my heart.Thou sing'st to her, and so do I addressMy music to her ear that's merciless;But herein doth the difference lie,—That thou art graced; so am not I;Thou singing livest, and I must singing die.
John Danyel.
ONCE I LOV'D A MAIDEN FAIR.
Once I lov'd a maiden fair,But she did deceive me;She with Venus might compare,In my mind, believe me:She was young, and amongAll our maids the sweetest.Now I say, ah! well-a-day!Brightest hopes are fleetest.I the wedding ring had got,Wedding clothes provided,Sure the church would bind a knotNe'er to be divided:Married we straight must be,She her vows had plighted;Vows, alas! as frail as glass:All my hopes are blighted.Maidens wav'ring and untrue,Many a heart have broken;Sweetest lips the world e'er knew,Falsest words have spoken.Fare thee well, faithless girl,I'll not sorrow for thee;Once I held thee dear as pearl,Now I do abhor thee.
Once I lov'd a maiden fair,But she did deceive me;She with Venus might compare,In my mind, believe me:She was young, and amongAll our maids the sweetest.Now I say, ah! well-a-day!Brightest hopes are fleetest.
I the wedding ring had got,Wedding clothes provided,Sure the church would bind a knotNe'er to be divided:Married we straight must be,She her vows had plighted;Vows, alas! as frail as glass:All my hopes are blighted.
Maidens wav'ring and untrue,Many a heart have broken;Sweetest lips the world e'er knew,Falsest words have spoken.Fare thee well, faithless girl,I'll not sorrow for thee;Once I held thee dear as pearl,Now I do abhor thee.
Temp. Jas. I. (condensed by T. Oxenford).
I PR'YTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART.
I pr'ythee send me back my heart,Since I cannot have thine;For if from yours you will not part,Why then shouldst thou have mine?Yet now I think on't, let it lie;To find it were in vain,For thou'st a thief in either eyeWould steal it back again.Why should two hearts in one breast lie,And yet not lodge together?O love! where is thy sympathy,If thus our breasts you sever?But love is such a mystery,I cannot find it out;For when I think I'm best resolved,I then am most in doubt.Then farewell love, and farewell woe,I will no longer pine;For I'll believe I have her heartAs much as she hath mine.
I pr'ythee send me back my heart,Since I cannot have thine;For if from yours you will not part,Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie;To find it were in vain,For thou'st a thief in either eyeWould steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,And yet not lodge together?O love! where is thy sympathy,If thus our breasts you sever?
But love is such a mystery,I cannot find it out;For when I think I'm best resolved,I then am most in doubt.
Then farewell love, and farewell woe,I will no longer pine;For I'll believe I have her heartAs much as she hath mine.
Sir John Suckling.
ORSAMES' SONG.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do't?Prithee, why so mute?Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do't?Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
Sir John Suckling.
SINCE FIRST I SAW YOUR FACE.
Since first I saw your face I resolvedTo honour and renown you;If now I be disdainedI wish my heart had never known you.What! I that loved, and you that liked,Shall we begin to wrangle?No, no, no, my heart is fastAnd cannot disentangle.The sun whose beams most glorious are,Rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare,Made my poor eyes the bolder.Where beauty moves, and wit delightsAnd signs of kindness bind me,There, oh! there, where'er I goI leave my heart behind me.If I admire or praise you too much,That fault you may forgive me,Or if my hands had strayed but a touch,Then justly might you leave me.I asked you leave, you bade me love;Is't now a time to chide me?No, no, no, I'll love you still,What fortune e'er betide me.
Since first I saw your face I resolvedTo honour and renown you;If now I be disdainedI wish my heart had never known you.What! I that loved, and you that liked,Shall we begin to wrangle?No, no, no, my heart is fastAnd cannot disentangle.
The sun whose beams most glorious are,Rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare,Made my poor eyes the bolder.Where beauty moves, and wit delightsAnd signs of kindness bind me,There, oh! there, where'er I goI leave my heart behind me.
If I admire or praise you too much,That fault you may forgive me,Or if my hands had strayed but a touch,Then justly might you leave me.I asked you leave, you bade me love;Is't now a time to chide me?No, no, no, I'll love you still,What fortune e'er betide me.
Circa 1617.
THE GIVEN HEART.
I Wonder what those lovers mean, who sayThey've given their hearts away.Some good, kind lover, tell me how:For mine is but a torment to me now.If so it be one place both hearts contain,For what do they complain?What courtesy can Love do more,Than to join hearts that parted were before?Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine comeInto the self-same room;'Twill tear and blow up all withinLike a grenade shot into a magazine.Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn partsOf both our broken hearts;Shall out of both one new one make,From hers th' alloy, from mine the metal take.For of her heart he from the flames will findBut little left behind:Mine only will remain entire,No dross was there to perish in the fire.
I Wonder what those lovers mean, who sayThey've given their hearts away.Some good, kind lover, tell me how:For mine is but a torment to me now.
If so it be one place both hearts contain,For what do they complain?What courtesy can Love do more,Than to join hearts that parted were before?
Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine comeInto the self-same room;'Twill tear and blow up all withinLike a grenade shot into a magazine.
Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn partsOf both our broken hearts;Shall out of both one new one make,From hers th' alloy, from mine the metal take.
For of her heart he from the flames will findBut little left behind:Mine only will remain entire,No dross was there to perish in the fire.
Abraham Cowley.
ICE AND FIRE.
Naked Love did to thine eye,Chloris, once to warm him, fly;But its subtle flame, and light,Scorch'd his wings, and spoiled his sight.Forc'd from thence he went to restIn the soft couch of thy breast:But there met a frost so great,As his torch extinguish'd straight.When poor Cupid (thus constrain'dHis cold bed to leave) complain'd:"'Las! what lodging's here for me,If all ice and fire she be."
Naked Love did to thine eye,Chloris, once to warm him, fly;But its subtle flame, and light,Scorch'd his wings, and spoiled his sight.
Forc'd from thence he went to restIn the soft couch of thy breast:But there met a frost so great,As his torch extinguish'd straight.
When poor Cupid (thus constrain'dHis cold bed to leave) complain'd:"'Las! what lodging's here for me,If all ice and fire she be."
Sir Edmund Sherburne.
AMARANTHA.
Amarantha, sweet and fair,Forbear to braid that shining hair;As my curious hand or eye,Hovering round thee, let it fly:Let it fly as unconfinedAs its ravisher the wind,Who has left his darling eastTo wanton o'er this spicy nest.Every tress must be confess'dBut neatly tangled at the best,Like a clew of golden thread,Most excellently ravelled.Do not then wind up that lightIn ribands, and o'ercloud the night;Like the sun in his early ray,But shake your head and scatter day.
Amarantha, sweet and fair,Forbear to braid that shining hair;As my curious hand or eye,Hovering round thee, let it fly:
Let it fly as unconfinedAs its ravisher the wind,Who has left his darling eastTo wanton o'er this spicy nest.
Every tress must be confess'dBut neatly tangled at the best,Like a clew of golden thread,Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then wind up that lightIn ribands, and o'ercloud the night;Like the sun in his early ray,But shake your head and scatter day.
Richard Lovelace.
TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.
When love, with unconfined wings,Hovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye—The birds that wanton in the air,Know no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage.If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,—Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
When love, with unconfined wings,Hovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye—The birds that wanton in the air,Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage.If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,—Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
Richard Lovelace.
A MOCK SONG.
Tis true I never was in love:But now I mean to be,For there's no artCan shield a heartFrom love's supremacy.Though in my nonage I have seenA world of taking faces,I had not age or wit to kenTheir several hidden graces.Those virtues which, though thinly set,In others are admired,In thee are altogether met,Which make thee so desired.That though I never was in love,Nor never meant to be,Thyself and partsAbove my artsHave drawn my heart to thee.
Tis true I never was in love:But now I mean to be,For there's no artCan shield a heartFrom love's supremacy.
Though in my nonage I have seenA world of taking faces,I had not age or wit to kenTheir several hidden graces.
Those virtues which, though thinly set,In others are admired,In thee are altogether met,Which make thee so desired.
That though I never was in love,Nor never meant to be,Thyself and partsAbove my artsHave drawn my heart to thee.
Alexander Brome.
SPEAKING AND KISSING.
The air which thy smooth voice doth break,Into my soul like lightning flies;My life retires while thou dost speak,And thy soft breath its room supplies.Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,I join my trembling lips to thine,And back receive that life from theeWhich I so gladly did resign.Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquireWhat numbers do the soul compose;No harmony can life inspireBut that which from these accents flows.
The air which thy smooth voice doth break,Into my soul like lightning flies;My life retires while thou dost speak,And thy soft breath its room supplies.
Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,I join my trembling lips to thine,And back receive that life from theeWhich I so gladly did resign.
Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquireWhat numbers do the soul compose;No harmony can life inspireBut that which from these accents flows.
Thomas Stanley.
LADIES' CONQUERING EYES.
Ladies, though to your conquering eyesLove owes its chiefest victories,And borrows those bright arms from youWith which he does the world subdue;Yet you yourselves are not aboveThe empire nor the griefs of love.Then rack not lovers with disdain,Lest love on you revenge their pain:You are not free because you're fair,The Boy did not his mother spare:Though beauty be a killing dart,It is no armour for the heart.
Ladies, though to your conquering eyesLove owes its chiefest victories,And borrows those bright arms from youWith which he does the world subdue;Yet you yourselves are not aboveThe empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain,Lest love on you revenge their pain:You are not free because you're fair,The Boy did not his mother spare:Though beauty be a killing dart,It is no armour for the heart.
George Etherege.
DORINDA.
Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,United, cast too fierce a light,Which blazes high, but quickly dies,Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight.Love is a calmer, gentler joy,Smooth are his looks and soft his pace;Her Cupid is a blackguard boyThat runs his link full in your face.
Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,United, cast too fierce a light,Which blazes high, but quickly dies,Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight.
Love is a calmer, gentler joy,Smooth are his looks and soft his pace;Her Cupid is a blackguard boyThat runs his link full in your face.
Charles Sackville.
CELIA AND SYLVIA.
Celia is cruel. Sylvia, thou,I must confess art kind;But in her cruelty, I vow,I more repose can find.For, oh! thy fancy at all games does fly,Fond of address, and willing to comply.Thus he that loves must be undone,Each way on rocks we fall;Either you will be kind to none,Or worse, be kind to all.Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care;We must be jealous, or we must despair.
Celia is cruel. Sylvia, thou,I must confess art kind;But in her cruelty, I vow,I more repose can find.For, oh! thy fancy at all games does fly,Fond of address, and willing to comply.
Thus he that loves must be undone,Each way on rocks we fall;Either you will be kind to none,Or worse, be kind to all.Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care;We must be jealous, or we must despair.
Robert Gould.
TRUE LOVE.
Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aidOf sighs, nor aches, to make it known,And to convince the cruellest maid,Lovers should use their love alone.Into their very looks 'twill steal,And he that most would hide his flame,Does in that case his pain reveal:Silence itself can love proclaim.
Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aidOf sighs, nor aches, to make it known,And to convince the cruellest maid,Lovers should use their love alone.
Into their very looks 'twill steal,And he that most would hide his flame,Does in that case his pain reveal:Silence itself can love proclaim.
Sir Charles Sedley.
TOO LATE!
Too late, alas! I must confess,You need not arts to move me;Such charms by nature you possess,'Twere madness not to love ye.Then spare a heart you may surprise,And give my tongue the gloryTo boast, though my unfaithful eyesBetray a tender story.
Too late, alas! I must confess,You need not arts to move me;Such charms by nature you possess,'Twere madness not to love ye.
Then spare a heart you may surprise,And give my tongue the gloryTo boast, though my unfaithful eyesBetray a tender story.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
MY MISTRESS' HEART.
My dear mistress has a heartSoft as those kind looks she gave me;When with Love's resistless art,And her eyes, she did enslave me.But her constancy's so weak,She's so wild and apt to wander;That my jealous heart would breakShould we live one day asunder.Melting joys about her move,Killing pleasures, wounding blisses;She can dress her eyes in love,And her lips can arm with kisses.Angels listen when she speaks,She's my delight, all mankind wonder;But my jealous heart would breakShould we live one day asunder.
My dear mistress has a heartSoft as those kind looks she gave me;When with Love's resistless art,And her eyes, she did enslave me.But her constancy's so weak,She's so wild and apt to wander;That my jealous heart would breakShould we live one day asunder.
Melting joys about her move,Killing pleasures, wounding blisses;She can dress her eyes in love,And her lips can arm with kisses.Angels listen when she speaks,She's my delight, all mankind wonder;But my jealous heart would breakShould we live one day asunder.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
CONSTANCY.
I cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since the poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born.No, Phillis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try;And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on and die.When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall;That welcome hour that ends his smart,Will then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.
I cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since the poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born.No, Phillis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try;And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on and die.
When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall;That welcome hour that ends his smart,Will then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
MAN AND WOMAN.
Man is for woman made,And woman made for man;As the spur is for the jade,As the scabbard for the blade,As for liquor is the can,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.As the sceptre to be sway'd,As to night the serenade,As for pudding is the pan,As to cool us is the fan,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.
Man is for woman made,And woman made for man;As the spur is for the jade,As the scabbard for the blade,As for liquor is the can,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.
As the sceptre to be sway'd,As to night the serenade,As for pudding is the pan,As to cool us is the fan,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.
Peter Antony Motteux.
ACCEPT MY HEART.
Accept, my love, as true a heartAs ever lover gave:'Tis free, it vows, from any art,And proud to be your slave.Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant,And let the giver live,Who, with it, would the world have sentHad it been his to give.And, that Dorinda may not fearI e'er will prove untrue,My vow shall, ending with the year,With it begin anew.
Accept, my love, as true a heartAs ever lover gave:'Tis free, it vows, from any art,And proud to be your slave.
Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant,And let the giver live,Who, with it, would the world have sentHad it been his to give.
And, that Dorinda may not fearI e'er will prove untrue,My vow shall, ending with the year,With it begin anew.
Matthew Prior.
AN ANGELIC WOMAN.
Not an angel dwells aboveHalf so fair as her I love.Heaven knows how she'll receive me:If she smiles I'm blest indeed;If she frowns I'm quickly freed;Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me.None can love her more than I,Yet she ne'er shall make me die,If my flame can never warm her:Lasting beauty I'll adore,I shall never love her more,Cruelty will so deform her.
Not an angel dwells aboveHalf so fair as her I love.Heaven knows how she'll receive me:If she smiles I'm blest indeed;If she frowns I'm quickly freed;Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me.
None can love her more than I,Yet she ne'er shall make me die,If my flame can never warm her:Lasting beauty I'll adore,I shall never love her more,Cruelty will so deform her.
Sir John Vanbrugh.
I SMILE AT LOVE.
I smile at Love, and all its arts,The charming Cynthia cried:Take heed, for Love has piercing darts,A wounded swain replied.Once free and blest as you are now,I trifled with his charms,I pointed at his little bow,And sported with his arms,Till urged too far, Revenge! he cries,A fatal shaft he drew,It took its passage through your eyes,And to my heart it flew.To tear it thence I tried in vain;To strive, I quickly foundWas only to increase the pain,And to enlarge the wound.Ah! much too well, I fear, you knowWhat pain I'm to endure,Since what your eyes alone can doYour heart alone can cure.And that (grant Heaven, I may mistake!)I doubt is doom'd to bearA burden for another's sake,Who ill rewards its care.
I smile at Love, and all its arts,The charming Cynthia cried:Take heed, for Love has piercing darts,A wounded swain replied.Once free and blest as you are now,I trifled with his charms,I pointed at his little bow,And sported with his arms,Till urged too far, Revenge! he cries,A fatal shaft he drew,It took its passage through your eyes,And to my heart it flew.
To tear it thence I tried in vain;To strive, I quickly foundWas only to increase the pain,And to enlarge the wound.Ah! much too well, I fear, you knowWhat pain I'm to endure,Since what your eyes alone can doYour heart alone can cure.And that (grant Heaven, I may mistake!)I doubt is doom'd to bearA burden for another's sake,Who ill rewards its care.
Sir John Vanbrugh.
ADIEU L'AMOUR.
Here end my chains, and thraldom cease,If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace;Since for the pleasures of an hour,We must endure an age of pain;I'll be this abject thing no more,Love, give me back my heart again.Despair tormented first my breast,Now falsehood, a more cruel guest;O! for the peace of human kind,Make women longer true, or sooner kind:With justice, or with mercy reign,O Love! or give me back my heart again.
Here end my chains, and thraldom cease,If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace;Since for the pleasures of an hour,We must endure an age of pain;I'll be this abject thing no more,Love, give me back my heart again.
Despair tormented first my breast,Now falsehood, a more cruel guest;O! for the peace of human kind,Make women longer true, or sooner kind:With justice, or with mercy reign,O Love! or give me back my heart again.
George Granville.
SABINA WAKES.