Never more will I protest To love a woman but in jest: For as they cannot be true, So to give each man his due, When the wooing fit is past, Their affection cannot last.
Therefore if I chance to meet With a mistress fair and sweet, She my service shall obtain, Loving her for love again: Thus much liberty I crave Not to be a constant slave.
But when we have tried each other, If she better like another, Let her quickly change for me; Then to change am I as free. He or she that loves too long Sell their freedom for a song.
Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]
THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION
Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
George Wither [1588-1667]
HIS FURTHER RESOLUTION
Shall I (like a hermit) dwell On a rock or in a cell; Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be!
Were her tresses angel-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, and unafraid, To convert them to a braid; And, with little more ado, Work them into bracelets, too! If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be!
Were her hands as rich a prize As her hair or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners' sake! And let every lover slip From her hand unto her lip! If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be!
No! She must be perfect snow In effect as well as show! Warming but as snowballs do; Not like fire by burning, too! But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot; Then if others share with me, Farewell her! whate'er she be!
Unknown
SONG From "Britannia's Pastorals"
Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then awhile to me; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she or none, That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart: So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.
Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth, Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.
Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhat young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
TO DIANEME
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapped Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
DISDAIN RETURNED
He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires: As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires: - Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have searched thy soul within, And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou.
Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
"LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE"
Love who will, for I'll love none, There's fools enough beside me: Yet if each woman have not one, Come to me where I hide me, And if she can the place attain, For once I'll be her fool again.
It is an easy place to find, And women sure should know it; Yet thither serves not every wind, Nor many men can show it: It is the storehouse, where doth lie All woman's truth and constancy.
If the journey be so long, No woman will adventer; But dreading her weak vessel's wrong, The voyage will not enter: Then may she sigh and lie alone, In love with all, yet loved of none.
William Browne [1591-1643]
VALERIUS ON WOMEN
She that denies me I would have; Who craves me I despise: Venus hath power to rule mine heart, But not to please mine eyes.
Temptations offered I still scorn; Denied, I cling them still; I'll neither glut mine appetite, Nor seek to starve my will.
Diana, double-clothed, offends; So Venus, naked quite: The last begets a surfeit, and The other no delight.
That crafty girl shall please me best, That no, for yea, can say; And every wanton willing kiss Can season with a nay.
Thomas Heywood [?-1650?]
DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES
If love be life, I long to die, Live they that list for me; And he that gains the most thereby, A fool at least shall be. But he that feels the sorest fits, 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain.
In day by feigned looks they live, By lying dreams in night; Each frown a deadly wound doth give, Each smile a false delight. If't hap their lady pleasant seem, It is for others' love they deem: If void she seem of joy, Disdain doth make her coy.
Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead, Blown here and there with every wind, Like flowers in the mead; Now war, now peace, now war again, Desire, despair, delight, disdain: Though dead in midst of life, In peace, and yet at strife.
Francis Davison [fl. 1602]
THE CONSTANT LOVER
Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place.
John Suckling [1609-1642]
SONG From "Aglaura"
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!
John Suckling [1609-1642]
WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS
Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:
Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:
Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;
Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie:
Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.
A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest