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Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth ! Do but look on her, she is bright

As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arch'd brows, such a grace Sheds itself through her face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall o' the snow

Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ?
Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smell’d o' the bud of the briar?
Or the 'nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she !

Ben Jonson.



He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,-
Hearts with equal love combined,

Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

Thomas Carew.




WEEPE with me all you that read

This little storie :
And know for whom a teare you shed,

Death's selfe is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive

Which own'd the creature.
Yeeres he numbred scarce thirteene

When Fates turn'd cruell,
Yet three fill'd Zodiackes had he beene

The stage's jewell;
And did act (what now we mone)

Old men so duely,
As sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He plai'd so truely.
So, by error, to his fate

They all consented ;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)

They have repented.
And have sought (to give new birth)

In bathes to steep him ;
But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keepe him.

Ben Jonson.


FAIN would I, Chloris, ere I die,
Bequeath you such a legacy,
That you might say, when I am gone,
None hath the like:--my heart alone
Were the best gift I could bestow,
But that's already yours, you know:
So that till you my heart resign,
Or fill with yours the place of mine,
And by that grace my store renew,
I shall have nought worth giving you

Whose breast has all the wealth I have,
Save a faint carcass and a grave.
But had I as many hearts as hairs,
As many loves as love has fears,
As many lives as years have hours,
They should be all and only yours.




SHALL I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then awhile to me,
And if such a woman move,

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she or none
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

That she scornes the help of art,
In as many Virtues dight

As ere yet embraced a hart,
So much good as truly tride,
Some for lesse were deifide.

Wit she hath without desire

To make knowne how much she hath ;
And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Tho' perhaps not so to me!

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Onely worth could kindle love.

Such she is, and if you know

Such a one as I have sung,
Be she browne, or faire, or so,

That she be but somewhile young,
Be assured 'tis she or none
That I love, and love alone.

William Browne.



AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs, thus intertalk’d: “Tell me,” said I, in deep distress, “Where may I find my shepherdess?” “Thou fool,” said Love, “know'st thou not this, In every thing that's good, she is? In yonder tulip go

and seek,
There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek;
yon enameli'd

pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood;
In brightest lilies that there stand,
The emblems of her whiter hand;
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell” :
“'Tis true," said I. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union :
But on a sudden all was gone.

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With that I stopt. Said Love, “these be,
Fond man, resemblances of thee;
And as these flowers, thy joy shall die,
E’en in the twinkling of an eye;
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets thus knit together.”

Thomas Carew.




(H.) My dearest love, since thou wilt go,

And leave me here behind thee;
For love or pity, let me know

The place where I may find thee.
(A.) In country meadows, pearld with dew,

And set about with lilies;
There, filling maunds with cowslips, you

May find your Amarillis.
(H.) What have the meads to do with thee,

Or with thy youthful hours?
Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be

queen of men-not flowers.
Let country wenches make 'em fine

With posies, since 'tis fitter
For thee with richest gems to shine,

And like the stars to glitter.
(A.) You set too high a rate upon

A shepherdess so homely.
(H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one

['th' Court that's half so comely.

I prithee stay. (A.) I must away; (H.) Let's kiss first, then we'll sever; (AMBO.) And tho' we bid adieu to-day, We shall not part for ever.

Robert Herrick,

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