These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh.
Seumas O'Sullivan [1879-
PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS
"FORGET NOT YET" The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent
Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant: My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet!
Forget not! O, forget not this! - How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss - Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this!
Thomas Wyatt [1503?-1542]
FAWNIA From "Pandosto"
Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower. Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapor's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.
Christopher Marlowe [1564-1593]
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD
If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, - soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, - All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.
Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]
"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"
Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.
Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]
TO HIS COY LOVE
I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite - Was ever man thus served: Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved!
Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!
Michael Drayton [1563-1631]
HER SACRED BOWER
Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow. Her sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?
Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!
Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?
If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace? Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.
But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
TO LESBIA After Catullus
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive: But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armor should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"LOVE ME OR NOT"
Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I. O that her grace would my wished comforts give! How rich in her, how happy should I live!
All my desire, all my delight should be Her to enjoy, her to unite to me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.
Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"
There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.
Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.
Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.
Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:
Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair, - Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
OF CORINNA'S SINGING
When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I! For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"
Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.