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 relieí 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, What fortune e'er betide me. 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. Unknown. XIV. PHILLIS is my only joy, Faithless as the winds or seas, I am cast down, Phillis smiling, And beguiling, Makes me happier than before. Though, alas! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix, I believing, What need lovers wish for more? Sir Charles Sedley. XV. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Trip no farther, pretty sweeting, 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. O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow! George Wither. 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, Ben Jonson. 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. |