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'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,
Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure,
Nor for that old morality,
Do I love her 'cause she loves me.
Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

Alexander Brome.



'Tis not your beauty not your wit

That can my heart obtain,
For they could never conquer yet

Either my breast or brain ;
For if you'll not prove kind to me,

And true as heretofore,
Henceforth I'll scorn your slave to be,

And doat on you no more.

Think not my fancy to o'ercome

By proving thus unkind;
No smoothëd sigh, nor smiling frown,

Can satisfy my mind.
Pray let Platonics play such pranks,

Such follies I deride;
For love at least I will have thanks, -

And something else beside !
Then open-hearted be with me,

As I shall be, I vow,
And let our actions be as free

As virtue will allow.
If you'll prove loving, I'll prove kind,-

If constant, I'll be true;
If Fortune chance to change your mind,

I'll turn as soon as you.

Since our affections, well ye know,

In equal terms do stand,
'Tis in your power to love or no,

Mine's likewise in my hand.
Dispense with your austerity,

Inconstancy abhor,
Or, by great Cupid's deity,
I'll never love you more.

Unknock M.


I PR’YTHEE leave this peevish fashion,

Don't desire to be high-prized,
Love's a princely, noble passion,

And doth scorn to be despised.
Tho' we say you're fair, you know
We your beauty do bestow,-
For our fancy makes you so.
Don't be proud 'cause we adore you,

We do't only for our pleasure ;
And those parts in which you glory,

We, by fancy, weigh and measure.
When for Deities you go,
For Angels, or for Queens, pray know
'Tis our own fancy makes you so !
Don't suppose your majesty

By tyranny's best signified,
And your angelic natures be

Distinguish'd only by your pride.
Tyrants make subjects rebels grow,
And pride makes angels devils below,
And your pride may make you so !

Alexander Bronie.



KNOW Celia (since thou art so proud)

'Twas I that gave thee thy renown:
Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd

Of common beauties, lived unknown
Had not my verse exhaled thy name,
And with it impt the wings of Fame.

That killing power is none of thine!

I gave it to thy voice and eyes:
Thy sweets, thy graces, - all are mine :

Thou art my star-shinest in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere
Lightning on him that fix'd thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,

Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic forms adore,

I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap Truth in tales, Know her themselves thro' all her veils.

Thomas Carew.

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SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies ;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives, -yours yet free:
Be you not proud of that rich hair,
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick.



Love in her sunny eyes does basking play;

Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair; Love does on both her lips for ever stray,

And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : In all her outward parts Love's always seen; But oh ! he never went within.

Abraham Cowley.

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STAY while ye will, or go,

And leave no scent behind ye:
Yet trust me, I shall know
The place where I may

find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek,

(Whose livery ye wear)
Play ye at hide or seek,
I'm sure to find ye there.

Robert Herrick.


All my past life is mine no more,

The flying hours are gone;
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.
The time that is to come, is not;

How, then, can it be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,

Phillis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows !

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.



WHILE on those lovely looks I gaze,

And see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a bless'd amaze,

His pleasing, happy ruin;

'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,
Whose heart, broke with a load of love,

Dies, wishing and admiring.
But if this murder you'd forego,

Your slave from death removing ; Let me your art of charming know,

Or learn you mine of loving.
But, whether life or death betide,

In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd dies with pleasure.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.


PHILLIS, men say that all my vows

Are to thy fortune paid ;
Alas ! my heart he little knows,

Who thinks my love a trade.
Were I of all these woods the lord,

One berry from thy hand
More real pleasure would afford

Then all my large command.
My humble love has learn'd to live

On what the nicest maid,
Without a conscious blush, may give
Beneath the myrtle shade.

Sir Charles Sedley.


'Tis not your saying that you love

Can ease me of my smart;
Your actions must your words approve,
Or else you

break my heart.
In vain you bid my passions cease,

And ease my troubled breast;
Your love alone must give me peace-

Restore my wonted rest.

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