Part 2
He asserts that “_Vers de Société_ by no means need be confined to topics of conventional life.”
Contradicting this, is the word of W. Davenport Adams, whose collection of “Songs of Society; from ANNE to VICTORIA,” admirably supplements Mr. Locker-Lampson’s earlier collection.
Mr. Adams tells us that “_Vers de Société_ should be applied to the poetry of fashionable life alone; should be limited to the doings and sayings of the world of fashion, and should deal exclusively with such things as routs and balls, and dinners and receptions.”
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Our own American collector, Mr. Brander Matthews, inclines to Mr. Locker-Lampson’s views, and therefore prefers the term Familiar Verse, as allowing excursions outside of Vanity Fair; while Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman again narrows the field by declaring in favor of “the more select order of society verse,” which he designates “Patrician Rhymes.”
Indeed, authorities on the subject of _Vers de Société_ seem somewhat in the position of the charming philosopher of _Wonderland_ fame:
“‘When _I_ use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.’
“‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you _can_ make words mean so many different things.’
“‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘Which is to be the master—that’s all.’”
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But though there is variance of opinion concerning the limits of the field, there is harmony of conviction regarding the intrinsic qualities of _Vers de Société_.
Mr. Locker-Lampson directs us that it should be “short, graceful, refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone should not be pitched high; it should be terse and idiomatic, and rather in the conversational key; the rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme frequent and never forced. The entire poem should be marked by tasteful moderation, high finish and completeness; for subordination to the rules of composition, and perfection of execution are of the utmost importance.
“The qualities of brevity and buoyancy are absolutely essential. The poem may be tinctured with a well-bred philosophy, it may be whimsically sad, it may be gay and gallant, it may be playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it may display lively banter, and it may be satirically facetious; it may even, considering it merely as a work of art, be pagan in its philosophy or trifling in its tone, but it must never be flat, or ponderous, or commonplace.”
The remarks of Mr. W. Davenport Adams are much in the same line. He says, “There should be little or no enthusiasm: the Muse should not be over-earnest, nor need it by any means be over-flippant. It is essential to ‘Society verse’ that it should have the tincture of good-breeding;—that if it is lively, it should be so without being vulgar; and that if it is tender it should be so without being maudlin. Its great distinction should be ease—the entire absence of apparent effort—the presence of that playful spontaneity which proclaims the master.”
Professor Brander Matthews, in his able essay on the subject, agrees in general to all these stipulations, and observes: “No doubt, Social verse should have polish, and finish, and the well-bred ease of the man of the world; but it ought also to carry, at least a suggestion of the more serious aspects of life. It should not be frothily frivolous or coldly cynical, any more than it should be broadly comic or boisterously funny. It is at liberty to hint at hidden tears, even when it seems to be wreathed in smiles. It has no right to parade mere cleverness; and it must shun all affectation as it must avoid all self-consciousness. It should appear to possess a colloquial carelessness which is ever shrinking from the commonplace and which has succeeded in concealing every trace of that labor of the literary artist by which alone it has attained their seemingly spontaneous perfection.... It must eschew not merely coarseness or vulgarity, but even free and hearty laughter; and it must refrain from dealing not only with the soul-plumbing abysses of the tragic, but even with the ground-swell of any sweeping emotion. It must keep on the crest of the wave, mid-way between the utter triviality of the murmuring shadows and the silent profundity of the depths that are dumb.”
Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman’s views coincide with those above quoted, and are thus briefly summed up: “In fine, the true kind is marked by humor, by spontaneity, joined with extreme elegance of finish, by the quality we call breeding,—above all, by lightness of touch.”
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These same authorities agree that not every poet may write _Vers de Société_. To quote Mr. Locker-Lampson: “The writer of Occasional verse, in order to be genuinely successful, must not only be something of a poet, but he must also be a man of the world, in the liberal sense of the expression; he must have associated throughout his life with the refined and cultivated members of his species, not merely as an idle bystander, but as a busy actor in the throng.”
Mr. Adams corroborates this by saying: “Although a clever literary artist may so far throw himself into the position of a man of society as to be able to write very agreeable Society verse, yet few can hope to write the best and most genuine _Vers de Société_ who are not, or have not at one time been, in some measure at any rate, inhabitants of ‘Society.’”
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As an instance, however, of the disagreement among the doctors, the following may be noted:
Mortimer Collins, himself a writer of _Vers de Société_, declared that the lines by Ben Jonson, beginning,
“Follow a shadow, it still flies you;”
is the most perfect bit of society verse written in our language. And speaking of the same poem, Mr. W. Davenport Adams says, “I cannot bring myself to look upon Ben Jonson as a ‘society poet,’ or upon the verses in question as a ‘society poem’ in the proper sense of the term—in the sense at least, in which I understand them.”
So we see, that in a degree, at least, _Vers de Société_ is, like Beauty, in the eye of the beholder.
But a consensus of opinion seems to prove that the keynote of _Vers de Société_ is lightness, both of theme and treatment. Yet though light, it must not be trashy. It is the lightness of beaten gold-leaf, not the lightness of chaff. It is valuable, not worthless.
The spirit of the work depends on an instant perception and a fine appreciation of values, seen through the medium of a whimsical kindliness.
Let this be expressed with perfect taste and skill, and with a courtly sense of humor, and the result may be classed among those immortal ephemeræ which we call _Vers de Société_.
A VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ ANTHOLOGY
_A Vers de Société Anthology_
TO CELIA
DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not ask for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. _Ben Jonson._
CUPID
BEAUTIES, have you seen this toy, Called love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus’ runaway.
He hath of marks about him plenty; Ye shall know him among twenty; All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian’s shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.
Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet; All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears.
If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him, Since ye hear his falser play, And that he’s Venus’ runaway. _Ben Jonson._
ROSALIND’S MADRIGAL
LOVE in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. 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. Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, He music plays if so I sing, He lends me every lovely thing: Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence: And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence. I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I’ll make you fast it for your sin, I’ll count your power not worth a pin; Alas, what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in my eyes I like of thee: O, Cupid so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. _Thomas Lodge._
ALL THINGS EXCEPT MYSELF I KNOW
I KNOW when milk does flies contain; I know men by their bravery; I know fair days from storm and rain; And what fruit apple-trees supply; And from their gums the trees descry; I know when all things smoothly flow; I know who toil or idle lie; All things except myself I know.
I know the doublet by the grain; The monk beneath the hood can spy; Master from man can ascertain; I know the nun’s veiled modesty; I know when sportsmen fables ply; Know fools who scream and dainties stow; Wine from the butt I certify; All things except myself I know.
Know horse from mule by tail and mane; I know their worth or high or low; Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain; I know each chance of cards and die; I know what visions prophesy, Bohemian heresies, I trow; I know men of each quality; All things except myself I know.
ENVOY
Prince, I know all things ’neath the sky, Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow; I know death whence can no man fly; All things except myself I know. _François Villon._
CUPID AND CAMPASPE
CUPID and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother’s doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin:— All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas, become of me! _John Lilly._
A DITTY
MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. _Sir Philip Sidney._
SONG FROM “TWELFTH NIGHT”
O MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming? O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ’tis not hereafter: Present mirth hath present laughter; What’s to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth’s a stuff will not endure. _William Shakespeare._
SIGH NO MORE
(From “_Much Ado About Nothing_”)
SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never; Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny; Converting all your sounds of woe Into hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more, Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy: Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny; Converting all your sounds of woe Into hey nonny, nonny. _William Shakespeare._
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON
IN the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside, Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not: She said, never man was true: He says, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long: She says, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then, She says, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all. Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness, truth Never loved a truer youth.
Thus, with many a pretty oath, Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!— Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse; Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded: And Phillida, with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May. _Nicholas Breton._
CHERRY-RIPE
THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of Orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow; Yet them no peer or prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh,— Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry! _Richard Allison._
SEND BACK MY LONG-STRAY’D EYES TO ME
SEND back my long-stray’d eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they’ve learnt such ill, To sweetly smile, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain; But if it has been taught by thine To forfeit both Its word and oath, Keep it, for then ’tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes, For I’ll know all thy falsities; That I one day may laugh, when thou Shalt grieve and mourn— Of one the scorn, Who proves as false as thou art now. _John Donne._
PACK CLOUDS AWAY
PACK clouds away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow: Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I’ll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale sing! To give my love good-morrow, To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them all I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! Sing, birds, in every furrow, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow. _Thomas Heywood._
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR
SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheek with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be!
Should my foolish heart be pined ’Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be!
Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her merit’s value known, Make me quite forget my own? Be sure with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be!
’Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of richness find, Think what with them they would do Who, without them, dare to woo— And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be!
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne’er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be! _George Wither._
TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he’s a getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. _Robert Herrick._
THE BRACELET
WHEN I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this my silken twist, For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? —But thy bond-slave is my heart.
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread, and thou art free; But ’tis otherwise with me:
I am bound, and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go: If I could I would not so! _Robert Herrick._
AN OLD RHYME
I DARE not ask a kisse, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kisse the aire That lately kissed thee. _Anonymous._
LOVE ME NOT FOR COMELY GRACE
LOVE me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart; For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep therefore a true woman’s eye, And love me still, but know not why. So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever. _Anonymous._
ON A GIRDLE
THAT which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely dear. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round. _Edmund Waller._
TO MY LOVE
I PR’YTHEE send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then should’st thou have mine?
Yet now I think on’t, let it lie; To find it, were in vain: For thou’st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts you sever?
But love is such a mystery I can not find it out; For when I think I’m best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I’ll believe I have her heart, As much as she has mine. _Sir John Suckling._
TO ALTHEA (FROM PRISON)
WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. _Richard Lovelace._
SONG
HEARS not my Phyllis how the birds Their feathered mates salute? They tell their passion in their words; Must I alone be mute? Phyllis, without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while.
The god of love in thy bright eyes Does like a tyrant reign; But in thy heart a child he lies, Without his dart or flame. Phyllis without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while.
So many months in silence past, And yet in raging love, Might well deserve one word at last My passion should approve. Phyllis, without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while.
Must then your faithful swain expire, And not one look obtain, Which he, to soothe his fond desire, Might pleasantly explain? Phyllis, without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while. _Sir Charles Sedley._
THE DESPAIRING LOVER
DISTRACTED with care, For Phyllis the fair, Since nothing can move her, Poor Damon, her lover, Resolves in despair No longer to languish, Nor bear so much anguish; But, mad with his love, To a precipice goes, Where a leap from above Will soon finish his woes.
When, in rage, he came there, Beholding how steep The sides did appear, And the bottom how deep; His torments projecting, And sadly reflecting That a lover forsaken A new lover may get; But a neck, when once broken, Can never be set: