Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.
When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"KIND ARE HER ANSWERS"
Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by fate prefixed. O, why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
TO CELIA From "The Forest"
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 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 [1573?-1637]
SONG From "The Forest"
O, do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being.
O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me.
O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract with fears; Mine own enough betray me.
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
SONG
Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.
John Donne [1573-1631]
THE MESSAGE
Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learned such ill, To sweetly smile, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain: But if it has been taught by thine To forfeit both Its word and oath, Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes, For I'll know all thy falsities; That I one day may laugh, when thou Shalt grieve and mourn - Of one the scorn, Who proves as false as thou art now.
John Donne [1573-1631]
SONG
Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty's but an offensive dart: It is no armor for the heart.
George Etherege [1635?-1691]
TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER
It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?
George Etherege [1635?-1691]
TO AENONE
What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honor thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
THE BRACELET: TO JULIA
Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason is't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bond-slave is my heart: 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO THE WESTERN WIND
Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, And all beset with flowers.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS
When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own Inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee: When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostasy.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY
If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED
Give me more love, or more disdain: The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
THE MESSAGE
Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: - Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.
Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]
"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"
At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.