Chapter I: KNOW when milk does flies contain;

I know men by their bravery;
I know fair days from storm and rain;
And what fruit apple-trees supply;
And from their gums the trees descry;
I know when all things smoothly flow;
I know who toil or idle lie;
All things except myself I know.

I know the doublet by the grain;
The monk beneath the hood can spy;
Master from man can ascertain;
I know the nun’s veiled modesty;
I know when sportsmen fables ply;
Know fools who scream and dainties stow;
Wine from the butt I certify;
All things except myself I know.

Know horse from mule by tail and mane;
I know their worth or high or low;
Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain;
I know each chance of cards and die;
I know what visions prophesy,
Bohemian heresies, I trow;
I know men of each quality;
All things except myself I know.

ENVOY

Prince, I know all things ’neath the sky,
Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow;
I know death whence can no man fly;
All things except myself I know.
_François Villon._

CUPID AND CAMPASPE

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother’s doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on his cheek, but none knows how;
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:—
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me!
_John Lilly._

A DITTY

MY true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
_Sir Philip Sidney._

SONG FROM “TWELFTH NIGHT”

O MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.

What is love? ’tis not hereafter:
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
_William Shakespeare._

SIGH NO MORE

(From “_Much Ado About Nothing_”)

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 woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy:
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.
_William Shakespeare._

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

IN the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
When anon by a woodside,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not:
She said, never man was true:
He says, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long:
She says, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then,
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness, truth
Never loved a truer youth.

Thus, with many a pretty oath,
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!—
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded:
And Phillida, with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.
_Nicholas Breton._

CHERRY-RIPE

THERE is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of Orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;
Yet them no peer or prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,—
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry!
_Richard Allison._

SEND BACK MY LONG-STRAY’D EYES TO ME

SEND back my long-stray’d eyes to me,
Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee:
But if from you they’ve learnt such ill,
To sweetly smile,
And then beguile,
Keep the deceivers, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
But if it has been taught by thine
To forfeit both
Its word and oath,
Keep it, for then ’tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
For I’ll know all thy falsities;
That I one day may laugh, when thou
Shalt grieve and mourn—
Of one the scorn,
Who proves as false as thou art now.
_John Donne._

PACK CLOUDS AWAY

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale sing!
To give my love good-morrow,
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them all I’ll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow,
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.
_Thomas Heywood._

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or make pale my cheek 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!

Should my foolish heart be pined
’Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be!

Shall a woman’s virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her merit’s value known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be sure with that goodness blest
Which 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 richness find,
Think what with them they would do
Who, without them, dare to woo—
And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how 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 THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

GATHER ye rose-buds 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 worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while you may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
_Robert Herrick._

THE BRACELET

WHEN I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this my silken twist,
For what other reason is’t

But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
—But thy bond-slave is my heart.

’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Snap the thread, and thou art free;
But ’tis otherwise with me:

I am bound, and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go:
If I could I would not so!
_Robert Herrick._

AN OLD RHYME