Chapter III: Part 3

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you, Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

George Meredith [1828-1909]

MARIAN

She can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes. She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery; Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie. Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring; Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.

Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing, Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing. She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.

George Meredith [1828-1909]

PRAISE OF MY LADY

My lady seems of ivory Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Hollowed a little mournfully. Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadowed much By bows of hair, has a wave such As God was good to make for me. Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair, Nor yet with yellow color fair, But thick and crisped wonderfully: Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad, And dark, but dead as though it had Been forged by God most wonderfully Beata mea Domina!

Of some strange metal, thread by thread, To stand out from my lady's head, Not moving much to tangle me. Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beata mea Domina!

Her great eyes, standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully; Beata mea Domina!

So beautiful and kind they are, But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me. Beata mea Domina!

I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be Beata mea Domina!

Lurking below the underlid, Darkening the place where they lie hid: If they should rise and flow for me! Beata mea Domina!

Her full lips being made to kiss, Curled up and pensive each one is; This makes me faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina!

Her lips are not contented now, Because the hours pass so slow Towards a sweet time: (pray for me), Beata mea Domina!

Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? But this at least I know full well, Her lips are parted longingly, Beata mea Domina!

So passionate and swift to move, To pluck at any flying love, That I grow faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina!

Yea! there beneath them is her chin, So fine and round, it were a sin To feel no weaker when I see Beata mea Domina!

God's dealings; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me. Beata mea Domina!

Of her long neck what shall I say? What things about her body's sway, Like a knight's pennon or slim tree Beata mea Domina!

Set gently waving in the wind; Or her long hands that I may find On some day sweet to move o'er me? Beata mea Domina!

God pity me though, if I missed The telling, how along her wrist The veins creep, dying languidly Beata mea Domina!

Inside her tender palm and thin. Now give me pardon, dear, wherein My voice is weak and vexes thee. Beata mea Domina!

All men that see her any time, I charge you straightly in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be, Beata mea Domina!

To kneel before her; as for me I choke and grow quite faint to see My lady moving graciously. Beata mea Domina!

William Morris [1834-1896]

MADONNA MIA

Under green apple boughs That never a storm will rouse, My lady hath her house Between two bowers; In either of the twain Red roses full of rain; She hath for bondwomen All kind of flowers.

She hath no handmaid fair To draw her curled gold hair Through rings of gold that bear Her whole hair's weight; She hath no maids to stand Gold-clothed on either hand; In all that great green land None is so great.

She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair, Wrought with strange gold, Made for some great queen's head, Some fair great queen since dead; And one strait gown of red Against the cold.

Beneath her eyelids deep Love lying seems asleep, Love, swift to wake, to weep, To laugh, to gaze; Her breasts are like white birds, And all her gracious words As water-grass to herds In the June-days.

To her all dews that fall And rains are musical; Her flowers are fed from all, Her joys from these; In the deep-feathered firs Their gift of joy is hers, In the least breath that stirs Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves, Forgets, remembers, grieves, And is not sad; The quiet lands and skies Leave light upon her eyes; None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad.

None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands; Though you should search all lands Wherein time grows, What snows are like her feet, Though his eyes burn with heat Through gazing on my sweet, - Yet no man knows.

Only this thing is said; That white and gold and red, God's three chief words, man's bread And oil and wine, Were given her for dowers, And kingdom of all hours, And grace of goodly flowers And various vine.

This is my lady's praise: God after many days Wrought her in unknown ways, In sunset lands; This is my lady's birth; God gave her might and mirth. And laid his whole sweet earth Between her hands.

Under deep apple boughs My lady hath her house; She wears upon her brows The flower thereof; All saying but what God saith To her is as vain breath; She is more strong than death, Being strong as love.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

"MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE?"

Came, on a Sabbath morn, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her: - Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now"; And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honor: - What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender! Then what said I? - gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her: - But, - meet we no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]

TO DAPHNE

Like apple-blossoms, white and red; Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon; Like bloom of peach, so softly spread; Like thorn of May and rose of June - Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

That pretty rose, which comes and goes Like April sunshine in the sky, I can command it when I choose - See how it rises if I cry: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes, And fades away, again to spring, No lover, sure, could ask for more Than still to cry, and still to sing: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Walter Besant [1836-1901]

"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"

Girl of the red mouth, Love me! Love me! Girl of the red mouth, Love me! 'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it - ah, even so! Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!

Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Love me! Girl of the dew eye, Love me! Worlds hang for lamps on high; And thought's world lives in thy Lustrous and tender eye - Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!

Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! Love me! Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so, - Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!

Girl of the low voice, Love me! Love me! Girl of the sweet voice, Love me! Like the echo of a bell, - Like the bubbling of a well, - Sweeter! Love within doth dwell, - Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!

Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]

THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

O lend to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain! That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet - The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender, - The light of both is in her eyes, Their softness and their splendor. But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night - The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones, The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell - Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

What though, perchance, we no more meet, - What though too soon we sever? Thy form will float like emerald light Before my vision ever. For who can see and then forget The glories of my gay brunette - Thou art too bright a star to set, Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]

"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"

If she be made of white and red, As all transcendent beauty shows; If heaven be blue above her head, And earth be golden, as she goes: Nay, then thy deftest words restrain; Tell not that beauty, it is vain.

If she be filled with love and scorn, As all divinest natures are; If 'twixt her lips such words are born, As can but Heaven or Hell confer: Bid Love be still, nor ever speak, Lest he his own rejection seek.

Herbert P. Horne [1864-

THE LOVER'S SONG

Lend me thy fillet, Love! I would no longer see: Cover mine eyelids close awhile, And make me blind like thee.

Then might I pass her sunny face, And know not it was fair; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there.

Ah! banished so from stars and sun - Why need it be my fate? If only she might dream me good And wise, and be my mate!

Lend her thy fillet, Love! Let her no longer see: If there is hope for me at all, She must be blind like thee.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]

"WHEN FIRST I SAW HER"

When first I saw her, at the stroke The heart of nature in me spoke; The very landscape smiled more sweet, Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet; She made the stars of heaven more bright By sleeping under them at night; And fairer made the flowers of May By being lovelier than they.

O, soft, soft, where the sunshine spread, Dark in the grass I laid my head; And let the lights of earth depart To find her image in my heart; Then through my being came and went Tones of some heavenly instrument, As if where its blind motions roll The world should wake and be a soul.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

MY APRIL LADY

When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]

THE MILKMAID A New Song To An Old Tune

Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace, - A maid I know, - and March winds blow Her hair across her face; - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, (To those who see it near!) - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that those have got, - The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds - Her laugh is like a tune; - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies flame! There'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

SONG

This peach is pink with such a pink As suits the peach divinely; The cunning color rarely spread Fades to the yellow finely; But where to spy the truest pink Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.

The snowdrop, child of windy March, Doth glory in her whiteness; Her golden neighbors, crocuses, Unenvious praise her brightness! But I do know where, out of sight, My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.

Norman Gale [1862-

IN FEBRUARY

My Lady's birthday crowns the growing year; A flower of Spring before the Spring is here; To sing of her and this fair day to keep The very Loves forsake their Winter sleep; Where'er she goes their circling wings they spread, And shower celestial roses o'er her head. I, too, would chant her worth and dare to raise A hymn to what's beyond immortal praise. Go, little verse, and lay in vesture meet Of poesy, my homage at her feet.

Henry Simpson [1868-

"LOVE, I MARVEL WHAT YOU ARE"

Love, I marvel what you are! Heaven in a pearl of dew, Lilies hearted with a star - All are you.

Spring along your forehead shines And the summer blooms your breast. Graces of autumnal vines Round you rest.

Birds about a limpid rose Making song and light of wing While the warm wind sunny blows, - So you sing.

Darling, if the little dust, That I know is merely I, Have availed to win your trust, Let me die.

Trumbull Stickney [1874-1904]

BALLADE OF MY LADY'S BEAUTY

Squire Adam had two wives, they say, Two wives had he for his delight; He kissed and clypt them all the day, And clypt and kissed them all the night. Now Eve like ocean foam was white, And Lilith, roses dipped in wine, But though they were a goodly sight, No lady is so fair as mine.

To Venus some folk tribute pay, And Queen of Beauty she is hight, And Sainte Marie the world doth sway, In cerule napery bedight. My wonderment these twain invite, Their comeliness it is divine; And yet I say in their despite, No lady is so fair as mine.

Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, For love of her brave men did fight, The eyes of her made sages fey And put their hearts in woeful plight. To her no rhymes will I indite, For her no garlands will I twine; Though she be made of flowers and light, No lady is so fair as mine.

L'ENVOI Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might, Who on Olympus doth recline, Do I not tell the truth aright? No lady is so fair as mine.

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

URSULA

I see her in the festal warmth to-night, Her rest all grace, her motion all delight. Endowed with all the woman's arts that please, In her soft gown she seems a thing of ease, Whom sorrow may not reach or evil blight.

To-morrow she will toil from floor to floor To smile upon the unreplying poor, To stay the tears of widows, and to be Confessor to men's erring hearts . . . ah me! She knows not I am beggar at her door.

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-

VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES

I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.

It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair? And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheeks two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.

I said: "It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!" And so I made a Villanelle!

I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

SONG

Love, by that loosened hair Well now I know Where the lost Lilith went So long ago.

Love, by those starry eyes I understand How the sea maidens lure Mortals from land.

Love, by that welling laugh Joy claims his own Sea-born and wind-wayward Child of the sun.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

SONG

O, like a queen's her happy tread, And like a queen's her golden head! But O, at last, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!

We wandered where the river gleamed 'Neath oaks that mused and pines that dreamed, A wild thing of the woods she seemed, So proud, and pure, and free!

All heaven drew nigh to hear her sing, When from her lips her soul took wing; The oaks forgot their pondering, The pines their reverie.

And O, her happy, queenly tread, And O, her queenly golden head! But O, her heart, when all is said, Her woman's heart for me!

William Watson [1858-1935]

ANY LOVER, ANY LASS

Why are her eyes so bright, so bright, Why do her lips control The kisses of a summer night, When I would love her soul?

God set her brave eyes wide apart And painted them with fire; They stir the ashes of my heart To embers of desire.

Her lips so tenderly are wrought In so divine a shape, That I am servant to my thought And can no wise escape.

Her body is a flower, her hair About her neck doth play; I find her colors everywhere, They are the pride of day.

Her little hands are soft, and when I see her fingers move I know in very truth that men Have died for less than love.

Ah, dear, live, lovely thing! my eyes Have sought her like a prayer; It is my better self that cries "Would she were not so fair!"

Would I might forfeit ecstasy And find a calmer place, Where I might undesirous see Her too desired face:

Nor find her eyes so bright, so bright, Nor hear her lips unroll Dream after dream the lifelong night, When I would love her soul.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

SONGS ASCENDING

Love has been sung a thousand ways - So let it be; The songs ascending in your praise Through all my days Are three.

Your cloud-white body first I sing; Your love was heaven's blue, And I, a bird, flew carolling In ring on ring Of you.

Your nearness is the second song; When God began to be, And bound you strongly, right or wrong, With his own thong, To me.

But oh, the song, eternal, high, That tops these two! - You live forever, you who die, I am not I But you.

Witter Bynner [1881-

SONG

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, And Triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, And Sun and Moon bow down." - But that, I knew, would never do; And Heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, I will not catch her eye.

"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy head, And vinegar to thy kiss!" - But Tragedy is not for me; And I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, I went another way.

And so I never feared to see You wander down the street, Or come across the fields to me On ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of, And what I never knew; It was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

SONG

How do I love you? I do not know. Only because of you Gladly I go.

Only because of you Labor is sweet, And all the song of you Sings in my feet.

Only the thought of you Trembles and lies Just where the world begins - Under my eyes.

Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-

TO. . . IN CHURCH

If I was drawn here from a distant place, 'Twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address, But, gazing once more on your winsome face, To worship there Ideal Loveliness. On that pure shrine that has too long ignored The gifts that once I brought so frequently I lay this votive offering, to record How sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me. Enchanting girl, my faith is not a thing By futile prayers and vapid psalm-singing To vent in crowded nave and public pew. My creed is simple: that the world is fair, And beauty the best thing to worship there, And I confess it by adoring you.

Alan Seeger [1888-1916]

AFTER TWO YEARS

She is all so slight And tender and white As a May morning. She walks without hood At dusk. It is good To hear her sing.

It is God's will That I shall love her still As He loves Mary. And night and day I will go forth to pray That she love me.

She is as gold Lovely, and far more cold. Do thou pray with me, For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me.

Richard Aldington [1892-

PRAISE

Dear, they are praising your beauty, The grass and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The grass in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising, Dearest, had I Speech as the whispering grass, Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh.

Seumas O'Sullivan [1879-

PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS

"FORGET NOT YET"
The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress
Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith
And True Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this! - How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss - Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!

Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]

FAWNIA From "Pandosto"

Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.

Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower. Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we 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 sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, - soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, - All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

TO HIS COY LOVE

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite - Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!

Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

HER SACRED BOWER

Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?

If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace? Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.

But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

TO LESBIA After Catullus

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive: But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"LOVE ME OR NOT"

Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I. O that her grace would my wished comforts give! How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be Her to enjoy, her to unite to me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"

There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:

Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair, - Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

OF CORINNA'S SINGING

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.

And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I! For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"

Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"KIND ARE HER ANSWERS"

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by fate prefixed. O, why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

TO CELIA From "The Forest"

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 rise Doth 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 honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

SONG From "The Forest"

O, do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract with fears; Mine own enough betray me.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne [1573-1631]

THE MESSAGE

Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learned 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 [1573-1631]

SONG

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The 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. Beauty's but an offensive dart: It is no armor for the heart.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER

It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO AENONE

What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honor thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE BRACELET: TO JULIA

Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this 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 [1591-1674]

TO THE WESTERN WIND

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, And all beset with flowers.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS

When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own Inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee: When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostasy.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED

Give me more love, or more disdain: The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

THE MESSAGE

Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: - Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]

"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery 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 so Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure From 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 sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]

TO FLAVIA

'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts: Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a 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 still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.

Unknown

"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

When, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are, like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrowed lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By their quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

John Suckling [1609-1642] or Owen Felltham [1602?-1668]

A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM

O for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

TO CHLOE Who For His Sake Wished Herself Younger

Chloe, why wish you that your years Would backwards run till they meet mine, That perfect likeness, which endears Things unto things, might us combine? Our ages so in date agree, That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awakened sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call Our bodies from the silent grave, Unto one age doth raise us all; None too much, none too little have; Nay, that the difference may be none, He makes two, not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such, Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine; So, by this, I as well may be Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright [1611-1643]

"I'll NEVER LOVE THEE MORE"

My dear and only Love, I pray This little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will And all to stand in awe. But 'gainst my batteries if I find Thou kick, or vex me sore, As that thou set me up a blind, I'll never love thee more!

Or in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part And dare to vie with me, Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be faithful, then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Were never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.

James Graham [1612-1650]

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free - Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.