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XLI.

THE HEAD-ACHE.

My head doth ache,
O, Sappho ! take

Thy fillet,
And bind the pain !
Or bring some bane

To kill it.

But less that part
Than my poor heart,

Now is sick:
One kiss from thee
Will counsel be,
And physic.

Robert Herrick.

XLII.

THE SIEGE.

'Tis now, since I sat down before

That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent !) a year, and more;

And still I did my part.
Made my approaches, from her hand

Unto her lip did rise ;
And did already understand

The language of her eyes.

Proceeding on with no less art,

My tongue was engineer;
I thought to undermine the heart

By whispering in the ear.

When this did nothing, I brought down

Great canon-oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the town,

And still it yielded not.

I then resolved to starve the place,

By cutting off all kisses,
Praising and gazing on her face,

And all such little blisses.
To draw her out, and from her strength,

I drew all batteries in :
And brought myself to lie at length,

As if no siege had been.
When I had done what man could do,

And thought the place my own,
The enemy lay quiet too,

And smiled at all was done.
I sent to know from whence, and where,

These hopes, and this relief?
A spy informed, Honour was there,

And did command in chief.

March, march (quoth I), the word straight give,

Let's lose no time, but leave her:
That giant upon air will live,

And hold it out for ever.
To such a place our camp remove

As will no siege abide;
I hate a fool that starves her love,
Only to feed her pride.

Sir John Suckling.

XLIII.

A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA.

JULIA, I bring

To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit ;

To shew by this,

That our love is,
Or should be, like to it.

Close tho' it be,
The joint is free ;

So when love's yoke is on,

It must not gall,

Or fret at all
With hard oppression.

But it must play

Still either way,
And be, too, such a yoke

As not too wide,

To overslide;
Or be so straight to chọke.

So we, who bear

This beam, must rear
Ourselves to such a height

As that the stay

Of either may
Create the burthen light.

And as this round

Is no where found
To flaw, or else to sever;

So let our love

As endless prove,
And pure as gold for ever

Robert Herrick.

XLIV.

I PR’YTHEE send me back my heart,

Since I can not have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,

Why then shouldst 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 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 cannot 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;
FO I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as she has mine.

Sir John Suckling.

XLV.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery,
Of your chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more!

Richard Lovelace.

XLVI.

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;

O things without compare !
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,

Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou knowst) do sell our hay,

There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town,

Forty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger, tho', than mine)

Walk'd on before the rest;
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him,

Should he go still so drest.
But wot you what? The youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid :
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance as did the maid.
The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so soft, so plump as she

Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But O! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison ;

Who sees them is undone;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

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