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A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness ;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick.


My Love in her attire doth show her wit,

It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,

For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.




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 nor 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!




NEVER believe me if I love,
Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove, –
And yet in faith I lie, I do,
And she's extremely handsome too.

She's fair, she's wondrous fair,
But I care not who knows it,
Ere I die for love, I fairly will forego it.
This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore.
When I am hungry I. do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place.
A gentle round, fill'd to the brink,
To this and tother friend I drink;
And if 'tis named another's health,
I never make it hers by stealth.
Black Fryars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains or a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much my love!

I visit, talk, do business, play,
And, for a need, laugh out a day:
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool:

She's fair, she's wondrous fair,
But I care not who knows it,
Ere I die for love, I fairly will forego it.

Sir John Suckling:


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.

Sir John Suckling.


SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or my cheeks make pale 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?
Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;

Or a well disposéd nature
Joined 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 she 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 riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo :

And unless that mind I see,

What care I tho' great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she loves 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.

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HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th'-wisp mis-light thee,
Nor snake nor slow worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What tho' the moon do slumber,

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto thee;

And when I shall meet

Thy silv'ry feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick.



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 for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick.

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