THE QUEEN.

I.

To heroism and holiness

How hard it is for man to soar, But how much harder to be less Than what his mistress loves him for!

He does with ease what do he must, Or lose her, and there's nought debarred

From him who's called to meet her trust,

And credit her desired regard. Ah, wasteful woman! she that may On her sweet self set her own price,

Knowing he cannot choose but pay; How has she cheapened paradise, How given for nought her priceless gift,

How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine,

Which, spent with due, respective thrift,

Had made brutes men, and men divine.

II.

O queen! awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give,

And comprehend and wear the crown
Of thy despised prerogative!
I who in manhood's name at length
With glad songs come to abdicate
The gross regality of strength,

Must yet in this thy praise abate, That through thine erring humble

ness

And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee. High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,

The coward had grasped the hero's sword,

The vilest had been great, hadst thou,

Just to thyself, been worth's reward:

But lofty honors undersold

Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favor that makes folly bold Puts out the light in virtue's face. COVENTRY PATMORE.

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But 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,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But, if no faithless action stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with
bays,

And love thee more and more.
MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

TO LUCASTA.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.
RICHARD LOVELACE.

APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

THEY that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up:

Neither do, nor care to, know, Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, nor choice or art,

To the first that's fair or kind,
Make a present of their heart:
Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in th' evening made,

Stars gave the first delight;
Admiring in the gloomy shade
Those little drops of light.

Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertained his eyes.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determin'd there.
And could no higher rise.

He neither might nor wished to know

A more refulgent light;

For that (as mine your beauties now),

Employed his utmost sight. EDMUND WALLER.

THE LADY'S YES.

"YES!" I answered you last night:
"No!" this morning, sir, I say.
Colors seen by candle-light
Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below,
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes, or fit for No!

Call me false; or call me free;
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both:
Time to dance is not to woo;
Wooer light makes fickle troth,
Scorn of me recoils on you.

An' sweetly I'd sleep an' sound. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve!

Come here and kneel wi me! .

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,

And I canna pray without thee.

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the

beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie and hie; Our gudeman leans o'er his kale yard dyke,

And a blythe auld bodie is he. The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame,

Wi the holy psalmodie;

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

CUNNINGHAM.

And for my werk right nothing wol I axe;

My lord and I ben ful of one accord. I made her to the worship of my Lord. CHAUCER.

THE BRIDE.

Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,

Like Phoebe from her chamber of the east,

Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.

So well it her beseems, that ye would

ween

Some angel she had been. Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire,

Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,

Do like a golden mantle her attire; And being crownèd with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too
bold,

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,

So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as
she,
Adorned with Beauty's grace and
Virtue's store?

Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shining bright,

Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,

Her breast like to a bowl of cream