Ye curious chanters of the wood That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise? So when my Mistress shall be seen In sweetness of her looks and mind, LXXXV Sir H. Wotton TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY AUGHTER to that good earl, once President Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, Till the sad breaking of that parliament At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent; Though later born than to have known the days So well your words his noble virtues praise, LXXXVI THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE I T 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, A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks These are but gauds: nay what are lips? And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That 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 breath, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there's nought within ; Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, One in whose gentle bosom I My earthly Comforter! whose love Anon. LXXXVII THE TRUE BEAUTY HE E that loves a rosy cheek But a smooth and steadfast mind, Kindle never-dying fires: Where these are not, I despise T. Carew LXXXVIII TO DIANEME WEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free : Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone. R. Herrick LXXXIX O, lovely Rose ! Grell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young In deserts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share E. Waller DRINK XC TO CELIA RINK to me only with thine eyes, Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not wither'd be ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! B. Jonson |