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Thy payment shall but double be;

Ó ihen with speed resign My own seducëd heart to me, Accompanied with thine.




Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee why so pale ?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?

Prithee why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee why so mute ?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.

Sir John Suckling.


SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be not so to me
What care I how fai she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind;

Or a well disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;

If she seem not such to me,

What care I how good she be ? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die ? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do Who without them dare to woo :

And unless that mind I see,

What care I tho' great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she loves me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

George Wither,




HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th’-wisp mis-light thee,
Nor snake nor slow worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee,

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What tho' the moon do slumber,

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto thee;

And when I shall meet

Thy silv'ry feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick.



GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying ;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer
But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while you may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick.

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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, ard 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.



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;

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