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XXVII.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearld with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears;
Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

Thomas Carew.

XXVIII.

THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE,

"SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee, tell!”-
It is that fountain, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that passing bell
That tolls us all to heaven or hell;
And this is love, as I heard tell.

“Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!”—
It is a work on holiday:
It is December match'd with May,
When lusty woods, in fresh array,
Hear, ten months after, of the play;
And this is love, as I hear say.

Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine !"-
It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;
It is a game where none doth gain,
The lass saith, No, and would full fain!
And this is love, as I hear saine.

"Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"-
It is a “yea,” it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may,
And this is love, as I hear say.
“ Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!”–
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it so;
And, shepherd, this is love I trow.

Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.

XXIX.

TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIS

NEITHER TOYING NOR TALKING.

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Some griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when Love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

Robert Herrick,

XXX.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, orient deep,
These Howers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west,
The phonix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she fies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies !

Thomas Carew.

XXXI.

JULIA'S BED.
See'st thou that cloud as silver clear,
Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere ?
'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.

Robert Herrick.

XXXII

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

When as in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick.

XXXIII.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

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.

XXXIV.

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.

Unknown.

XXXV.

CHERRY-RIPE.

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.

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.

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,
Threatning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,-
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry!

Richard Allison.

XXXVI.

Preserve thy sighs, unthristy girl !

To purify the air ;
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,

On bracelets of thy hair.
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,

And wakes the louder drum ;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,

When sorrow should be dumb.
For I must go where lazy peace

Will hide her drowsy head ;
And, for the sport of kings, increase

The number of the dead.
But first I'll chide thy cruel theft :

Can I in war delight,
Who, being of my heart bereft,

Can have no heart to fight ?
Thou knowest the sacred laws of old,

Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold

What he had stolen awav.

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