This carol they began that hour, And therefore take the present time With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino ! Sweet lovers love the Spring. William Shakespeare. XXXVII. TRUE LOVELINESS. IT 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, Your lips that seem on roses fed, A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,-- These are but gauds: nay what are lips? And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,. Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; For crystal brows there's nought within; Give me, instead of beauty's bust, One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, My earthly comforter! whose love That, when my spirit wonned above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. XXXVIII. LOVE'S IDEAL. SHALL I tell you whom I love? As she scorns the help of art, As e'er yet embraced a heart. Anonymous. So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she has without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is; and if you know That she be but somewhile young, That I love, and love alone. XXXIX. William Browne. LOVE'S ATTIRE. A SWEET NEGLECT. STILL be neat, still to be drest Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Ben Jonson. XL. LOVE'S ATTIRE. NOT TOO PRECISE. A SWEET disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there Do more bewitch me, than when art Robert Herrick. XLI. LOVE'S ATTIRE. JULIA IN SILKS. WHEN as in silks my Julia goes, That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see XLII. Robert Herrick. LOVE'S ATTIRE. BEAUTY'S SELF. My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, For every season she hath dressings fit, No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone. Anonymous. XLIII. LOVE'S RESTING PLACE. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight, And makes his pillow of my knee D |