A Vers de Société Anthology

D'

TO CELIA

RINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not ask for wine.

The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

Ben Jonson.

B

CUPID

EAUTIES, have you seen this toy,
Called love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind,

Cruel now, and then as kind?

If he be amongst ye, say!
He is Venus' runaway.

He hath of marks about him plenty;
Ye shall know him among twenty;
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts, where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,

With that first he strikes his mother.

Trust him not: his words, though sweet,

Seldom with his heart do meet;

All his practice is deceit,

Every gift is but a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason in his tears.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him,
Though ye had a will to hide him.
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him,
Since ye hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

Ben Jonson.

L

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

OVE in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast:
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee

The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if so I sing,
He lends me every lovely thing:
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence:

And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin;
Alas, what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes I like of thee:
O, Cupid so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.

Thomas Lodge.

ALL THINGS EXCEPT MYSELF I KNOW

I

KNOW when milk does flies contain;

I know men by their bravery;

I know fair days from storm and rain;
And what fruit apple-trees supply;
And from their gums the trees descry;
I know when all things smoothly flow;
I know who toil or idle lie;

All things except myself I know.

I know the doublet by the grain;
The monk beneath the hood can spy;
Master from man can ascertain;

I know the nun's veiled modesty;
I know when sportsmen fables ply;
Know fools who scream and dainties stow;
Wine from the butt I certify;

All things except myself I know.

Know horse from mule by tail and mane;
I know their worth or high or low;
Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain;

I know each chance of cards and die;
I know what visions prophesy,
Bohemian heresies, I trow;

I know men of each quality; All things except myself I know.

ENVOY

Prince, I know all things 'neath the sky,
Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow;
I know death whence can no man fly;
All things except myself I know.

François Villon.