XII. THE SILENT LOVER. WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart, With thinking that he feels no smart, Since, if my plaints serve not to approve For knowing that I sue to serve I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; Thus those desires that aim too high When reason cannot make them die, Yet, when discretion doth bereave Silence in love bewrays more woe Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, He smarteth most that hides his smart, Sir Walter Raleigh XIII. SINCE first I saw your face I vowed My heart I had never known you. If I admire or praise too much, The sun, whose beams most glorious are, And thy sweet beauty, past compare, Where beauty moves, and wit delights, I leave my heart behind me. Though, alas! too late I find I believing, What need lovers wish for more? Sir Charles Sedley. XV. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? What is love? 'tis not hereafter; William Shakspere. XVI. 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. There would be little sign I would do so; Why then should I this robbery delay? O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow! Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. George Wither. XVIII. TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 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. XIX. A MADRIGAL. AMARYLLIS I did woo, George Wither. XX. CHARIS. Her Triumph. SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. 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. |