Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets too; If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be?
TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR. JOHN WICKS.
SINCE shed nor cottage I have none,
I sing the more that thou hast one, To whose glad threshold and free door I may a poet come, though poor, And eat with thee a savoury bit, Paying but common thanks for it. Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see An over-leaven look in thee,
To sour the bread, and turn the beer To an exalted vinegar;
Or shouldst thou prize me as a dish
Of thrice boiled worts, or third day's fish, I'd rather hungry go and come,
Than to thy house be burdensome :
Yet in my depth of grief I'd be
One that should drop his beads for thee.
COME, let us now resolve at last To live and love in quiet; We'll tie the knot so very fast, That Time shall ne'er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live; 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgive.
When least I seemed concerned, I took
No pleasure, nor no rest;
And when I feign'd an angry look,
Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me, you'll find
How blest will be your fate :
O, to be happy, to be kind,
Sure never is too late.
John, Duke of Buckingham.
OFTEN I have heard it said That her lips are ruby-red. Little heed I what they say, I have seen as red as they. Ere she smiled on other men, Real rubies were they then.
When she kiss'd me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright were those that shone In the palace of the Sun.
Will they be as bright again?
Not if kiss'd by other men.
IT often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.
O that it were so! then my rest Would be indeed among the blest; I should for ever dream of you.
NATURE! thy fair and smiling face Has now a double power to bless, For 'tis the glass in which I trace My absent Fanny's loveliness.
Her heavenly eyes above me shine, The rose reflects her modest blush,
She breathes in every eglantine,
She sings in every warbling thrush. That her dear form alone I see, Need not excite surprise in any, For Fanny's all the world to me, And all the world to me is Fanny. Horatio Smith.
ARIEL to MIRANDA :- Take This slave of Music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony In which thou can'st, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples, he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent moon In her interlunar swoon
Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth, Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life, from your nativity. Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps and served your will.
Now, in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor Sprite is Imprisoned for some fault of his In a body like a grave:
From you he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow, A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought To echo all harmonious thought, Felled a tree while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine, And dreaming, some of autumn past, And some of spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love. And so this tree- Oh, that such our death may be !— Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again :
From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought the loved Guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully, In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamoured tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells. For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voiced fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew, And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard, mysterious sound Which, driven on its diurnal round, As it floats through boundless day, Our world enkindles on its way: All this it knows; but will not tell To those who cannot question well The Spirit that inhabits it. It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day. But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest, holiest tone For our beloved Jane alone.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
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