You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.
Henry Walton [1568-1639]
HER TRIUMPH From "A Celebration of Charis"
See the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than Words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
OF PHYLLIS
In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phyllis beneath an oak Sat milking her fair flock: Among that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, Her hand seemed milk in milk, it was so white.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
A WELCOME
Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring forever.
He that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.
He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.
He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.
He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing.
He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring forever.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
THE COMPLETE LOVER
For her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
RUBIES AND PEARLS
Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.
Some asked how pearls did grow, and where; Then spoke I to my girl, To part her lips, and showed them there The quarrelets of pearl.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES
Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, - O how that glittering taketh me!
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO CYNTHIA ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
Do not conceal those radiant eyes, The starlight of serenest skies; Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, They turn to chaos' endless night!
Do not conceal those tresses fair, The silken snares of thy curled hair; Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, The curious silk-worm work no more.
Do not conceal those breasts of thine, More snow-white than the Apennine; Lest, if there be like cold and frost, The lily be for ever lost.
Do not conceal that fragrant scent, Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent Perfumes; lest, it being suppressed, No spices grow in all the East.
Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; Lest, music hearing no such thing, The nightingale forget to sing.
Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all their worth.
Do not conceal no beauty, grace, That's either in thy mind or face; Lest virtue overcome by vice Make men believe no Paradise.
Francis Kynaston [1587-1642]
SONG
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
A DEVOUT LOVER
I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers: I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]
ON A GIRDLE
That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair! Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
CASTARA
Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser eye betrayed: For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view
Such is her beauty as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood; She is noblest, being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence, eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.
She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me.
William Habington [1605-1654]
TO ARAMANTHA That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
Aramantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' east, To wanton in that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.
Do not, then, wind up that light In ribbons, and o'er-cloud in night, Like the sun in's early ray; But shake your head and scatter day.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
CHLOE DIVINE
Chloe's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, And Venus in her arms.
Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine; And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.
Thomas D'Urfey [1653-1723]
MY PEGGY
My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay: My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm na very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her at The wauking o' the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare: My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld.