Which is still diligent lest others see;
Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way. 15
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes,
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
To me thou falsely thine, 20
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing or full constant light, 25
And his short minute, after noon, is night.
_John Donne._
LXV
_SONG._
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, orient deep.
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray 5
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past; 10
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there 15
Fixèd become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20
_Thomas Carew._
LXVI
THE PRIMROSE.
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearled with dew?
I will whisper to your ears, 5
The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break? 10
I will answer, these discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.
_Robert Herrick._
LXVII
_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, 5
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe’s in her ruddiest hours, 10
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 15
Full oft he perisheth on them.
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? 20
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
Poison can breathe, 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, 25
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren’s hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of beauty’s bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind, 30
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find,--
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly 35
That hides his murmurs in the rose,--
My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be
That, when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 40
_Anon._
LXVIII
_THE ROSE’S MESSAGE._
Go, lovely Rose!
Tell 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. 5
Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had’st thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died. 10
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. 15
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20
_Edmund Waller._
LXIX
_THE ROSES PRIDE._
Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
_Sir Richard Fanshawe._
LXX
_TO CASTARA. THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE._
We saw and wooed each other’s eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 5
Profane the temple of delight,
And purchase endless penitence
With the stol’n pleasure of one night.
Time’s ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay, 10
For though the suns do set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day;
Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent;
The troubled stream is still impure; 15
With virtue flies away content.
And though opinions often err,
We’ll court the modest smile of fame,
For sin’s black danger circles her
Who hath infection in her name. 20
Thus when to one dark silent room
Death shall our loving coffins thrust,
Fame will build columns on our tomb,
And add a perfume to our dust.
_William Habington._
LXXI
_LOVE’S ANNIVERSARY._
TO THE SUN.
Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increased, but that by love’s decree 5
’Twas such at first, it ne’er could greater be.
But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakness? I since that have seen
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
_William Habington._
LXXII
_THE SURRENDER._
My once dear Love! hapless that I no more
Must call thee so--the rich affection’s store
That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.
We, that did nothing study but the way 5
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give,
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live 10
Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.
Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly heats; witness that breast, 15
Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest,
’Tis no default in us, I dare acquit
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
Us to each other, and Heaven did untie 20
Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!
Since then some higher destinies command,
Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand
What is past help. The longest date of grief 25
Can never yield a hope of our relief;
And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,
Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.
Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,
That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves 30
Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself,--so thou again art free;
Thou in another, sad as that, resend 35
The truest heart that lover e’er did lend.
Now turn from each. So fare our severed hearts,
As the divorced soul from her body parts.
_Henry King._
LXXIII
_THE BRIDE’S TRAGEDY._
O waly, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my Love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik, 5
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak’,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie,
A little time while it is new, 10
But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.
Oh! wherefore should I busk my head,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook, 15
And says he’ll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me,
Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Since my true Love’s forsaken me. 20
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle Death! when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.
’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemency;
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see; 30
My Love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel’ in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I’d locked my heart in a case of gowd, 35
And pinned it with a siller pin.
And oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee,
And I mysel’ were dead and gane,
With the green grass growing over me! 40
_Anon._
LXXIV
_BURD HELEN._
I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
Oh think na but my heart was sair,
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! 10
I laid her down wi’ meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide, 15
On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
For her sake that died for me. 20
O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I’ll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.
Oh that I were where Helen lies! 25
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest, 30
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen’s arms lying, 35
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies:
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me. 40
_Anon._
LXXV
_LOVE’S ENTERPRISE._
Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest, 5
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest
Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glowworm to lie; 10
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter 15
And find out the way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight; 20
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him 25
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor heart! to be blind;
But if ne’er so close you wall him,
Do the best that you may, 30
Blind Love, if so you call him,
Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle 35
The phœnix of the east;
The lioness, you may move her
To give o’er her prey;
But you’ll ne’er Stop a lover:
He will find out the way. 40
If the earth should part him,
He would gallop it o’er;
If the seas should o’erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore.
Should his Love become a swallow, 45
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.
There is no striving
To cross his intent, 50
There is no contriving
His plots to prevent;
But if once the message greet him,
That his true-love doth stay,
If death should come and meet him, 55
Love will find out the way.
_Anon._
LXXVI
_THE TWA BROTHERS._
There were twa brothers at the scule,
And when they got awa’--
‘Its will ye play at the stane-chucking,
Or will ye play at the ba’,
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 5
And there we’ll warsell a fa’.’
‘I winna play at the stane-chucking,
Nor will I play at the ba’,
But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,
And there we’ll warsel a fa’.’ 10
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till John fell to the ground;
A dirk fell out of Willie’s pouch,
And gave him a deadly wound.
‘Oh, Billie, lift me on your back, 15
Take me to yon well fair,
And wash the bluid frae aff my wound,
And it will bleed nae mair.’
He’s lifted his brother upon his back,
Ta’en him to yon well fair; 20
He’s washed the bluid frae aff his wound,
But ay it bled mair and mair.
‘Tak ye aff my Holland sark,
And rive it gair by gair,
And stap it in my bluidy wound, 25
And syne ’twill bleed nae mair.’
He’s taken aff his Holland sark,
And torn it gair by gair;
He’s stappit it in his bluidy wound,
But ay it bled mair and mair. 30
‘Tak now aff my green sleiding,
And row me saftly in;
And tak me up to yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.’
He’s taken aff the green sleiding, 35
And rowed him saftly in;
He’s laid him down by yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.
‘What will ye say to your father dear
When ye gae hame at e’en?’ 40
‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.
‘O no, O no, my brother dear,
O you must not say so;
But say that I’m gane to a foreign land, 45
Where nae man does me know.
When he sat in his father’s chair
He grew baith pale and wan.
‘O what blude’s that upon your brow?
O dear son, tell to me.’ 50
‘It is the blude o’ my gude gray steed,
He wadna ride wi’ me.’
‘O thy steed’s blude was ne’er sae red,
Nor e’er sae dear to me: 55
O what blude’s this upon your cheek?
O dear son, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my greyhound,
He wadna hunt for me.’
‘O thy hound’s blude was ne’er sae red, 60
Nor e’er sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your hand?
O dear son, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my gay gosshawk,
He wadna flee for me.’ 65
‘O thy hawk’s blude was ne’er sae red,
Nor e’er sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your dirk?
Dear Willie, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my ae brother, 70
O dule and wae is me!’
‘O what will ye say to your father,
Dear Willie, tell to me?’
‘I’ll saddle my steed, and awa’ I’ll ride
To dwell in some far countrie.’ 75
‘O when will ye come hame again,
Dear Willie, tell to me?’
‘When the sun and mune dance on yon green,
And that will never be.’
She turned hersel’ right round about, 80
And her heart burst into three:
‘My ae best son is deid and gane,
And my tother ane I’ll ne’er see.’
_Anon._
LXXVII
_THE TWA SISTERS._
There were twa sisters lived in a bouir;
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_;
The youngest o’ them, oh, she was a flouir!
_By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Binnorie._
There came a squire frae the west; 5
He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best;
He gied the eldest a gay gowd ring;
But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing.
He courted the eldest wi’ broach and knife;
But he lo’ed the youngest as his life. 10
The eldest she was vexèd sair,
And sore envied her sister fair.
And it fell once upon a day,
The eldest to the youngest did say:
‘Oh, sister, come to the sea-strand, 15
And see our father’s ships come to land.
She’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand,
And led her down to the sea-strand.
The youngest sat upon a stane;
The eldest came and pushed her in. 20
‘Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,
And you shall be heir of half my land.’
‘Oh, sister, I’ll not reach my hand,
And I’ll be heir of all your land.
‘Shame fa’ the hand that I should take! 25
It twinned me and my world’s maik.’
‘Oh, sister, reach me but your glove,
And you shall be sweet William’s love.’
‘Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove,
And sweet William shall better be my love. 30
‘Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair
Had gar’d me gang maiden evermair.’
First she sank, and syne she swam,
Until she cam to Tweed mill-dam.
The miller’s dauchter was baking breid, 35
And gaed for water as she had need.
‘Oh, father, father, in our mill-dam
There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’
The miller quickly drew his dam;
And there he fand a drowned woman. 40
You couldna see her yellow hair,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare.
You couldna see her middle sma’,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.
You couldna see her lilie feet, 45
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.
You couldna see her fingers sma’,
Wi’ diamond rings they were covered a’.
‘Sair will they be, whae’er they be,
The hearts that live to weep for thee!’ 50
Then by there cam a harper fine,
That harpèd to the king at dine.
And, when he looked that lady on,
He sighed, and made a heavy moan.
He has ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, 55
And wi’ them strung his harp sae fair.
And he brought the harp to her father’s hall,
And there the court was assembled all.
He laid his harp upon a stone,
And straight it began to play alone. 60
‘O yonder sits my father, the king!
And yonder sits my mother, the queen!
‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William sweet and true!’
But the last tune that the harp played then, 65
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_,
Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helen!’
_By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie._
_Anon._
LXXVIII
_TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY._
Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth
Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth;
The better part with Mary and with Ruth 5
Chosen thou hast; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity’ and ruth.
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 10
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.
_John Milton._
LXXIX
_EYES AND TEARS._
How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see!
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.
And, since the self-deluding sight 5
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye, 10
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears:
And all the jewels which we prize, 15
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green;
And yet from all those flowers I saw,
No honey but these tears could draw. 20
So the all-seeing sun each day
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless, 25
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen in tears more wise
Dissolved those captivating eyes, 30
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet,
To fetter her Redeemer’s feet.
Nor full sails hasting laden home,
Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair 35
As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire.
Yea, oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes. 40
The incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear;
And stars show lovely in the night,
But as they seem the tears of light.
Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice, 45
And practise so your noblest use;
For others too can see, or sleep;
But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop: 50
Now, like two fountains, trickle down:
Now, like two floods o’er-run and drown:
Thus let your streams o’erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things;
And each the other’s difference bears; 55
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
_Andrew Marvell._
LXXX
_TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MASTER GEORGE SANDYS, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE
PSALMS._
I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine,
Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, 5
And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays.
So, devout penitents of old were wont,
Some without door, and some beneath the font,
To stand and hear the Church’s liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemn exercise: 10
Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain,
To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train;
Though not in tune nor wing she reach thy lark,
Her lyric feet may dance before the ark.
Who knows, but that her wandering eyes that run, 15
Now hunting glowworms, may adore the sun:
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour:
My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. 20
So (though ’gainst nature’s course) fire may be quenched
With fire, and water be with water drenched;
Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed, 25
Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed,
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first Fair may find the immortal Love.
Prompted by thy example, then no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore; 30
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, 35
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.
_Thomas Carew._
LXXXI
_THE FLOWER._
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away, 5
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart 10
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 15
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is: 20
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
Oh, that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither: 25
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-shower,
My sins and I joining together.
But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, 30
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
Where all things burn,
When Thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown? 35
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only Light,
It cannot be 40
That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell at night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can find and prove, 45
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
_George Herbert._
LXXXII
_GOD UNSEARCHABLE._
Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind;
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixt in that watery theatre;
And taste thou them as saltless there 5
As in their channel first they were;
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdoms of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshivered into seeds of rain; 10
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears
Of corn when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence:
This if thou canst, then show me Him 15
That rides the glorious Cherubim.
_Robert Herrick._
LXXXIII
_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC._