103. S Than e'er he did his mother's doves, In Tears Her Triumph O sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not B. Jonson To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheek down flows: Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light: Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee, So ridest thou triumphing in my woe: Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show: But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel, No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell! W. Shakespeare 104. STILL Simplex Munditiis L to be neat, still to be drest, Still to be powdered, still perfumed; Though art's hid causes are not found, 105. 106. Give me a look, give me a face They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Upon Julia's Clothes B. Jonson WHENAS in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see -O how that glittering taketh me! A Delight in Disorder R. Herrick SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: An erring lace, which here and there 107. A careless shoe-string, in whose tie Do more bewitch me than when art R. Herrick THAT On a Girdle HAT which her slender waist confined It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, A narrow compass! and yet there E. Waller 108. To the Western Wind SWEE WEET western wind, whose luck it is, To give Perenna's lips a kiss, And fan her wanton hair: Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, R. Herrick 109. Phyllis N petticoat of green, IN Her hair about her eyne, Sat milking her fair flock: 'Mongst that sweet-strainèd moisture, rare delight, Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white. IIO. A Dialogue W. Drummond "AR RT thou that she than whom no fairer is? Art thou that she desire so strives to kiss? "Say I am, how then? Maids may not kiss Such wanton-humoured men." "Art thou that she the world commends for wit? Art thou so wise and mak'st no use of it? 99 Christ Church MS. III. II2. O Rosalind FROM the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, But the fair of Rosalind. Promised Weal W. Shakespeare WORDS, which fall like summer dew on me! O breath, more sweet than is the growing bean! Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies! But thou, white skin, as white as curds well pressed, First four but say, next four their saying seal; |