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And kneel down beside my feet

‘Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

And the first time, I will send A little rose-bud for a guerdon,

And the second time, a glove;

But the third time-I may bend
From my pride, and answer – Pardon,

If he comes to take my love.'

“ Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will ride faster,

Till he kneeleth at my knee:

I am a duke's eldest son, Thousand serfs do call me master,

But, O Love, I love but thee!'

“He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds:

And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,

And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing thro' the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops-and stops. Lo, the white swan had deserted !

And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds !

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not; but I know She could never show him-never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

Elizabeth B. Browning


That out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind;
It is not sure, nor can be true,
My own, my only love, of you.
They were my friends,—'twas sad to part,
Almost a tear began to start ;
But yet as things run on they find,
That out of sight is out of mind.
For men that will not idlers be,
Must lend their hearts to things they see,
And friends who leave them far behind,
When out of sight are out of mind.
I blame it not ; I think that when
The cold and silent meet again,
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,
'Twas out of sight out of mind."
That friends, however friends they were,
Still deal with things as things occur,
And that, excepting for the blind,
What's out of sight is out of mind.
But Love, the poets say, is blind ;
So out of sight and out of mind
Need not, nor will, I think, be true,
My own, and

nly love, of you.

Arthur H. Clough.






Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too, and down he throws
The coral of his lip—the rose
Growing on's cheek, but none knows how;
With these the crystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win :
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, hath she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me !

John Lyly.



LAWRENCE, os virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be wo


From the hard season gaining ? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

John Milton.


Of all the torments, all the cares,

With which our lives are curst ;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst !
By partners of each other kind,

Afflictions easier grow ;
In love alone we hate to find

Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see

Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,

Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigours are,

With them alone I'll cope :--
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

William Walsh.



The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone : with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear ;

Or if thyself possess a gem,
As dear to thee as this to them;
Tho' a stranger to this place,
Bewayle in theirs thine own hard case,
For thou, perhaps, at thy returne
Mayst find thy darling in an urne.

Thomas Carew.



CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws :
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, tho' wise in show,
That with superfluous burthen loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

John Milton.

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Still to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

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