Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Trust me, darling, the time is near When lovers may love with never a fear; Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]
TO LESBIA
Give me kisses! Do not stay, Counting in that careful way. All the coins your lips can print Never will exhaust the mint. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!
Give me kisses! Do not stop, Measuring nectar by the drop. Though to millions they amount, They will never drain the fount. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!
Give me kisses! All is waste Save the luxury we taste; And for kissing, - kisses live Only when we take or give. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!
Give me kisses! Though their worth Far exceeds the gems of earth, Never pearls so rich and pure Cost so little, I am sure. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!
Give me kisses! Nay, 'tis true I am just as rich as you; And for every kiss I owe, I can pay you back, you know, Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!
John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]
MAKE BELIEVE
Kiss me, though you make believe; Kiss me, though I almost know You are kissing to deceive: Let the tide one moment flow Backward ere it rise and break, Only for poor pity's sake!
Give me of your flowers one leaf, Give me of your smiles one smile, Backward roll this tide of grief Just a moment, though, the while, I should feel and almost know You are trifling with my woe.
Whisper to me sweet and low; Tell me how you sit and weave Dreams about me, though I know It is only make believe! Just a moment, though 'tis plain You are jesting with my pain.
Alice Cary [1820-1871]
KISSING'S NO SIN
Some say that kissing's a sin; But I think it's nane ava, For kissing has wonn'd in this warld Since ever that there was twa.
O, if it wasna lawfu' Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it.
If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak' it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folk wadna get it.
Unknown
TO ANNE
How many kisses do I ask? Now you set me to my task. First, sweet Anne, will you tell me How many waves are in the sea? How many stars are in the sky? How many lovers you make sigh? How many sands are on the shore? I shall want just one kiss more.
William Stirling-Maxwell [1818-1878]
SONG
There is many a love in the land, my love, But never a love like this is; Then kill me dead with your love, my love, And cover me up with kisses.
So kill me dead and cover me deep Where never a soul discovers; Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep, In the darlingest tomb of lovers.
Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]
PHILLIS AND CORYDON
Phillis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair, - Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere, -
Phillis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt have this, Or" - Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds! - "a kiss?"
Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night long, A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's evening song.
A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a crimson rose! Corydon made his choice and took - Well, which do you suppose?
Arthur Colton [1868-
AT HER WINDOW
"HARK, HARK, THE LARK" From "Cymbeline"
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
"SLEEP, ANGRY BEAUTY"
Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me! For who a sleeping lion dares provoke? It shall suffice me here to sit and see Those lips shut up, that never kindly spoke: What sight can more content a lover's mind Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps, Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps: Dreams often more than waking passions move. Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: That she is peace may wake and pity me.
Thomas Campion [? -1619]
MATIN SONG
Rise, Lady Mistress, rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thoughts of whom keep sin away?
Rise, Madam! rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise; For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.
Nathaniel Field [1587-1633]
THE NIGHT-PIECE: TO JULIA
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber: What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
MORNING
The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.
William D'Avenant [1606-1668]
MATIN-SONG From "The Rape of Lucrece"
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow!
Thomas Heywood [? -1650?]
THE ROSE
Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn her bower; From thy long-cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head.
New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor!
Vermilion ball that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Love's couch's coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed.
Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair!
See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed.
But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I fear, - Because her cheeks are near.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
SONG
See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes! And now the sun begins to rise; Less glorious is the morn that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united, day they give; But different fates ere night fulfil; How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldness kill!
William Congreve [1670-1729]
MARY MORISON
O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stour A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye arena Mary Morison."
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
WAKE, LADY!
Up! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, Long have the rooks cawed round the tower; O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, And the wild kid sports merrily. The sun is bright, the sky is clear: Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.
Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air! The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam. Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay; Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!
Up! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone. Lose not these hours, so cool and gay: Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!
Joanna Baillie [1762-1851]
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY
Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile - Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!