Chapter 6

She is as gold Lovely, and far more cold. Do thou pray with me, For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me.

Richard Aldington [1892-

PRAISE

Dear, they are praising your beauty, The grass and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The grass in a sigh.

I too would sing for your praising, Dearest, had I Speech as the whispering grass, Or the silent sky.

These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh.

Seumas O'Sullivan [1879-

PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS

"FORGET NOT YET" The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this! - How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss - Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!

Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]

FAWNIA From "Pandosto"

Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.

Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower. Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, - soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, - All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

TO HIS COY LOVE

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite - Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!

Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

HER SACRED BOWER

Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?

If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace? Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.

But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

TO LESBIA After Catullus

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive: But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"LOVE ME OR NOT"

Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I. O that her grace would my wished comforts give! How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be Her to enjoy, her to unite to me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"

There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:

Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair, - Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

OF CORINNA'S SINGING

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.

And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I! For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"

Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"KIND ARE HER ANSWERS"

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by fate prefixed. O, why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

TO CELIA From "The Forest"

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 look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 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 [1573?-1637]

SONG From "The Forest"

O, do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract with fears; Mine own enough betray me.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne [1573-1631]

THE MESSAGE

Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learned 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 [1573-1631]

SONG

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty's but an offensive dart: It is no armor for the heart.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER

It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO AENONE

What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honor thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE BRACELET: TO JULIA

Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this 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 [1591-1674]

TO THE WESTERN WIND

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, And all beset with flowers.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS

When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own Inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee: When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostasy.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED

Give me more love, or more disdain: The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

THE MESSAGE

Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: - Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]

"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts - For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath! - Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]

TO FLAVIA

'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts: Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart: For these 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 doat upon me ever.

Unknown

"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

When, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are, like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrowed lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By their quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

John Suckling [1609-1642] or Owen Felltham [1602?-1668]

A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM

O for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

TO CHLOE Who For His Sake Wished Herself Younger

Chloe, why wish you that your years Would backwards run till they meet mine, That perfect likeness, which endears Things unto things, might us combine? Our ages so in date agree, That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awakened sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.