Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]
YES?
Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it - The word spoken yesterday night? Does that hour seem so sweet now between it And this has come day's sober light? Have you woke from a moment of rapture To remember, regret, and repent, And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your Unthinking consent?
Who was he, last evening - this fellow Whose audacity lent him a charm? Have you promised to wed Pulchinello? For life taking Figaro's arm? Will you have the Court fool of the papers, The clown in the journalists' ring, Who earns his scant bread by his capers, To be your heart's king?
When we met quite by chance at the theatre And I saw you home under the moon, I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her Tricks with my tongue quite so soon; That I should forget fate and fortune Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf - That I'd have the calm nerve to importune You, sweet, for yourself.
It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious Effrontery of that request! But you - you grew suddenly gracious, And hid your sweet face on my breast. Why you did it I cannot conjecture; I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, Or perhaps - does the moonlight affect your Head often that way?
. . . . . . . . . . .
You're released! With some wooer replace me More worthy to be your life's light; From the tablet of memory efface me, If you don't mean your Yes of last night. But - unless you are anxious to see me a Wreck of the pipe and the cup In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia - Love, don't give me up!
Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]
THE PRIME OF LIFE
Just as I thought I was growing old, Ready to sit in my easy chair, To watch the world with a heart grown cold, And smile at a folly I would not share,
Rose came by with a smile for me, And I am thinking that forty year Isn't the age that it seems to be, When two pretty brown eyes are near.
Bless me! of life it is just the prime, A fact that I hope she will understand; And forty year is a perfect rhyme To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.
These gray hairs are by chance, you see - Boys are sometimes gray, I am told: Rose came by with a smile for me, Just as I thought I was getting old.
Walter Learned [1847-1915]
THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS
"Love your neighbor as yourself," - So the parson preaches: That's one half the Decalogue, - So the prayer-book teaches. Half my duty I can do With but little labor, For with all my heart and soul I do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that, To my self-denial, Not to love her, though, might be Something of a trial. Why, the rosy light, that peeps Through the glass above her, Lingers round her lips, - you see E'en the sunbeams love her.
So to make my merit more, I'll go beyond the letter: - Love my neighbor as myself? Yes, and ten times better. For she's sweeter than the breath Of the Spring, that passes Through the fragrant, budding woods, O'er the meadow-grasses.
And I've preached the word I know, For it was my duty To convert the stubborn heart Of the little beauty. Once again success has crowned Missionary labor, For her sweet eyes own that she Also loves her neighbor.
George Augustus Baker [1849-1906]
THE IRONY OF LOVE
"SIGH NO MORE, LADIES" From "Much Ado About Nothing"
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
A RENUNCIATION
If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.
To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!
Edward Vere [1550-1604]
A SONG
Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From Love's imperial chain, Take warning, and be taught by me, To avoid the enchanting pain; Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove, To careless seamen, hidden rocks, To human quiet, love.
Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize; The snake's beneath the flower: Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, That tasted quiet more? How faithless is the lovers' joy! How constant is their care The kind with falsehood to destroy, The cruel, with despair.
George Etherege [1635?-1691]
TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS
I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.
The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwell: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
Robert Ayton [1570-1638]
TO AN INCONSTANT
I loved thee once; I'll love no more, - Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That it thou might elsewhere enthrall: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice, - Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.
Robert Ayton [1570-1638]
ADVICE TO A GIRL
Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man! Men sometimes will jealous be, Though but little cause they see, And hang the head, as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent.
Men, that but one Saint adore, Make a show of love to more; Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk: - If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear!
Thomas Campion [? -1619]
SONG That Women Are But Men's Shadows From "The Forest"
Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even, shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
Ben Johnson [1573?-1637]
TRUE BEAUTY
May I find a woman fair And her mind as clear as air! If her beauty go alone, 'Tis to me as if 'twere none.
May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch! If that pride should cause disdain, Tell me, Lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise, And her falsehood not disguise! Hath she wit as she hath will, Double-armed she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind! How should I call that love mine When 'tis his, and his, and thine?
May I find a woman true! There is beauty's fairest hue: There is beauty, love, and wit. Happy he can compass it!
Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]
THE INDIFFERENT