XII. A VALENTINE. WHEN slumber first unclouds my brain, And sense refresh'd renews her reign,— When next in prayer to God above I bend my knee, Then when I pray for those I love,- And when the duties of the day To rise and journey on life's way,— Or if, perchance, I sing some lay, All that the idle verses say, They say of thee. If of an eye whose liquid light Gleams like the sea, They sing, or tresses brown and bright,— They sing of thee. And if a weary mood, or sad, Possesses me, One thought can all times make me glad,— The thought of thee. And when once more upon my bed, Full wearily, Or gladly if one pang 'twould save,— I'd die for thee. Unknown. XIII. SINCE first I saw your face I resolved My heart I had never known you. And cannot disentangle! If I admire or praise you too much, No, no, no, I'll love you still, The sun, whose beams most glorious are, And thy sweet beauty, past compare, There, oh! there, where'er I go, I leave my heart behind me. Unknown. XIV. As at noon Dulcina rested In her sweet and shady bower, A wound he took So deep, that for a further boon Whereto she says, "Forego me now, come to me soon." But in vain she did conjure him Having a thousand tongues to allure him, 66 And eyes delight, And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, What boots she say, Forego me now, come to me soon." Unknown. XV. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? What is love? 'tis not hereafter; XVI. William Shakspere. I DO Confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find And since thou canst with more than one, The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, Arm'd with her briars, how sweet her smell! Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, And I will sigh, while some will smile, XVII. Sir Robert Ayton. A STOLEN KISS. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow! XVIII. 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 look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee! Ben Jonson. SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, as they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. |