Chapter 17

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 Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhat young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

TO DIANEME

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame.

That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.

Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapped Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

DISDAIN RETURNED

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires: As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires: - Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have searched thy soul within, And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

"LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE"

Love who will, for I'll love none, There's fools enough beside me: Yet if each woman have not one, Come to me where I hide me, And if she can the place attain, For once I'll be her fool again.

It is an easy place to find, And women sure should know it; Yet thither serves not every wind, Nor many men can show it: It is the storehouse, where doth lie All woman's truth and constancy.

If the journey be so long, No woman will adventer; But dreading her weak vessel's wrong, The voyage will not enter: Then may she sigh and lie alone, In love with all, yet loved of none.

William Browne [1591-1643]

VALERIUS ON WOMEN

She that denies me I would have; Who craves me I despise: Venus hath power to rule mine heart, But not to please mine eyes.

Temptations offered I still scorn; Denied, I cling them still; I'll neither glut mine appetite, Nor seek to starve my will.

Diana, double-clothed, offends; So Venus, naked quite: The last begets a surfeit, and The other no delight.

That crafty girl shall please me best, That no, for yea, can say; And every wanton willing kiss Can season with a nay.

Thomas Heywood [?-1650?]

DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES

If love be life, I long to die, Live they that list for me; And he that gains the most thereby, A fool at least shall be. But he that feels the sorest fits, 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain.

In day by feigned looks they live, By lying dreams in night; Each frown a deadly wound doth give, Each smile a false delight. If't hap their lady pleasant seem, It is for others' love they deem: If void she seem of joy, Disdain doth make her coy.

Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead, Blown here and there with every wind, Like flowers in the mead; Now war, now peace, now war again, Desire, despair, delight, disdain: Though dead in midst of life, In peace, and yet at strife.

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]

THE CONSTANT LOVER

Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place.

John Suckling [1609-1642]

SONG From "Aglaura"

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, First does the longing lover right.

Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!"

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

In her whole frame Have Nature all the name; Art and Ornament, the shame!

Her flattery, Picture and Poesy: Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish - no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May She enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions - but her Story!

Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]

SONG From "Abdelazer"

Love in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

Aphra Behn [1640-1689]

LES AMOURS

She that I pursue, still flies me; Her that follows me, I fly; She that I still court, denies me; Her that courts me, I deny; Thus in one web we're subtly wove, And yet we mutiny in love.

She that can save me, must not do it; She that cannot, fain would do; Her love is bound, yet I still woo it; Hers by love is bound in woe: Yet how can I of love complain, Since I have love for love again?

This is thy work, imperious Child, Thine's this labyrinth of love, That thus hast our desires beguiled, Nor seest how thine arrows rove. Then, prithee, to compose this stir, Make her love me, or me love her.

But, if irrevocable are Those keen shafts that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far, That thou once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]

RIVALS

Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are cursed; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.

William Walsh [1663-1708]

"I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE"

I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste, That I no more would court The joys which seem when they are past As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find: I make my oaths when she's severe, But break them when she's kind.

John Oldmixon [1673-1742]

THE TOUCH-STONE

A fool and knave with different views For Julia's hand apply; The knave to mend his fortune sues, The fool to please his eye.

Ask you how Julia will behave, Depend on't for a rule, If she's a fool she'll wed the knave - If she's a knave, the fool.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]

AIR From "The Duenna"

I ne'er could any luster see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art? I will own the color true When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure? I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

"I TOOK A HANSOM ON TO-DAY"

I took a hansom on to-day, For a round I used to know - That I used to take for a woman's sake In a fever of to-and-fro.

There were the landmarks one and all - What did they stand to show? Street and square and river were there - Where was the ancient woe?

Never a hint of a challenging hope Nor a hope laid sick and low, But a longing dead as its kindred sped A thousand years ago!

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

DA CAPO

Short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it - Our poor little love lying cold. Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it? Nor the joys and pains of it told? How fair was its face in the morning, How close its caresses at noon, How its evening grew chill without warning, Unpleasantly soon!

I can't say just how we began it - In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; Fate took but an instant to plan it; It needs but a moment to die. Yet - remember that first conversation, When the flowers you had dropped at your feet I restored. The familiar quotation Was - "Sweets to the sweet."

Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted My senses a whole season through. If there was one soft charm that you wanted The violets lent it to you. I whispered you, life was but lonely: A cue which you graciously took; And your eyes learned a look for me only - A very nice look.

And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch; You said many things in a sigh, and Made a look express wondrously much. We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, And laughed for no reason but fun; Irrational joys; but beguiling - And all that is done!

We were idle, and played for a moment At a game that now neither will press: I cared not to find out what "No" meant; Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes." Love is done with and dead; if there lingers A faint and indefinite ghost, It is laid with this kiss on your fingers - A jest at the most.

'Tis a commonplace, stale situation, Now the curtain comes down from above On the end of our little flirtation - A travesty romance; for Love, If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, Fell dead of the first kisses' pain: But one thing is left us now; that is - Begin it again.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

SONG AGAINST WOMEN

Why should I sing of women And the softness of night, When the dawn is loud with battle And the day's teeth bite, And there's a sword to lay my hand to And a man's fight?

Why should I sing of women? . . . There's life in the sun, And red adventure calling Where the roads run, And cheery brews at the tavern When the day's done.

I've sung of a hundred women In a hundred lands: But all their love is nothing But drifting sands. I'm sick of their tears and kisses And their pale hands.

I've sung of a hundred women And their bought lips; But out on the clean horizon I can hear the whips Of the white waves lashing the bulwarks Of great, strong ships:

And the trails that run to the westward Are shot with fire, And the winds hurl from the headland With ancient ire; And all my body itches With an old desire.

So I'll deal no more in women And the softness of night, But I'll follow the red adventure And the wind's flight; And I'll sing of the sea and of battle And of men's might.

Willard Huntington Wright [18

SONG OF THYRSIS

The turtle on yon withered bough, That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now - Such changes all await! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she's willing to be blest And takes her lover to her nest.

If nature has decreed it so With all above, and all below, Let us like them forget our woe, And not be killed with sorrow. If I should quit your arms to-night And chance to die before 'twas light, I would advise you - and you might - Love again to-morrow.

Philip Freneau [1752-1832]

THE TEST

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, Her hand that trembled and withdrew; She bent her head before my kiss . . . My heart was sure that hers was true. Now I have told her I must part, She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart! Hers never was the heart for you.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

"THE FAULT IS NOT MINE"

The fault is not mine if I love you too much, I loved you too little too long, Such ever your graces, your tenderness such, And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone, Though he never abandoned me yet. Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864]

THE SNAKE

My love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbor lay, When near us, from a rosy bed, A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid, with laughing eyes - "Yonder the fatal emblem lies! Who could expect such hidden harm Beneath the rose's velvet charm?"

Never did moral thought occur In more unlucky hour than this; For oh! I just was leading her To talk of love and think of bliss.

I rose to kill the snake, but she In pity prayed it might not be. "No," said the girl - and many a spark Flashed from her eyelid as she said it - "Under the rose, or in the dark, One might, perhaps, have cause to dread it; But when its wicked eyes appear, And when we know for what they wink so, One must be very simple, dear, To let it sting one - don't you think so?"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"WHEN I LOVED YOU"

When I loved you, I can't but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it!

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you is pleasant enough, And oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP

"A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden, - the thought is divine!" Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"O never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim: - But yon little god, upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck. With the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away Love!"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

TO WOMAN

Woman! experience might have told me That all must love thee who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are naught; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing, When joined with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion's over! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When, lo! she changes in a day. This record will forever stand, "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

LOVE'S SPITE

You take a town you cannot keep; And, forced in turn to fly, O'er ruins you have made shall leap Your deadliest enemy! Her love is yours - and be it so - But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe, And loved, and wished to love, in vain But when the snow begins to thaw We shun with scorn the miry plain. Women with grace may yield: but she Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen: Cold looked she as the waveless breast Of some stone Dian at thirteen. Men loved: but hope they deemed to be A sweet Impossibility!

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For, were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies! A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a specter in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? O, teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SHADOWS

They seemed, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.