A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.
A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes.
Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:
Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, First does the longing lover right.
Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day.
Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!"
Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.
In her whole frame Have Nature all the name; Art and Ornament, the shame!
Her flattery, Picture and Poesy: Her counsel her own virtue be.
I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish - no more.
Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.
'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.
May She enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions - but her Story!
Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]
SONG From "Abdelazer"
Love in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!
Aphra Behn [1640-1689]
LES AMOURS
She that I pursue, still flies me; Her that follows me, I fly; She that I still court, denies me; Her that courts me, I deny; Thus in one web we're subtly wove, And yet we mutiny in love.
She that can save me, must not do it; She that cannot, fain would do; Her love is bound, yet I still woo it; Hers by love is bound in woe: Yet how can I of love complain, Since I have love for love again?
This is thy work, imperious Child, Thine's this labyrinth of love, That thus hast our desires beguiled, Nor seest how thine arrows rove. Then, prithee, to compose this stir, Make her love me, or me love her.
But, if irrevocable are Those keen shafts that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far, That thou once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both.
Charles Cotton [1630-1687]
RIVALS
Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are cursed; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.
William Walsh [1663-1708]
"I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE"
I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste, That I no more would court The joys which seem when they are past As dull as they are short.
I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find: I make my oaths when she's severe, But break them when she's kind.
John Oldmixon [1673-1742]
THE TOUCH-STONE
A fool and knave with different views For Julia's hand apply; The knave to mend his fortune sues, The fool to please his eye.
Ask you how Julia will behave, Depend on't for a rule, If she's a fool she'll wed the knave - If she's a knave, the fool.
Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]
AIR From "The Duenna"
I ne'er could any luster see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art? I will own the color true When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure? I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]
"I TOOK A HANSOM ON TO-DAY"
I took a hansom on to-day, For a round I used to know - That I used to take for a woman's sake In a fever of to-and-fro.
There were the landmarks one and all - What did they stand to show? Street and square and river were there - Where was the ancient woe?
Never a hint of a challenging hope Nor a hope laid sick and low, But a longing dead as its kindred sped A thousand years ago!
William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]
DA CAPO
Short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it - Our poor little love lying cold. Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it? Nor the joys and pains of it told? How fair was its face in the morning, How close its caresses at noon, How its evening grew chill without warning, Unpleasantly soon!
I can't say just how we began it - In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; Fate took but an instant to plan it; It needs but a moment to die. Yet - remember that first conversation, When the flowers you had dropped at your feet I restored. The familiar quotation Was - "Sweets to the sweet."
Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted My senses a whole season through. If there was one soft charm that you wanted The violets lent it to you. I whispered you, life was but lonely: A cue which you graciously took; And your eyes learned a look for me only - A very nice look.
And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch; You said many things in a sigh, and Made a look express wondrously much. We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, And laughed for no reason but fun; Irrational joys; but beguiling - And all that is done!
We were idle, and played for a moment At a game that now neither will press: I cared not to find out what "No" meant; Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes." Love is done with and dead; if there lingers A faint and indefinite ghost, It is laid with this kiss on your fingers - A jest at the most.
'Tis a commonplace, stale situation, Now the curtain comes down from above On the end of our little flirtation - A travesty romance; for Love, If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, Fell dead of the first kisses' pain: But one thing is left us now; that is - Begin it again.
Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]
SONG AGAINST WOMEN
Why should I sing of women And the softness of night, When the dawn is loud with battle And the day's teeth bite, And there's a sword to lay my hand to And a man's fight?
Why should I sing of women? . . . There's life in the sun, And red adventure calling Where the roads run, And cheery brews at the tavern When the day's done.
I've sung of a hundred women In a hundred lands: But all their love is nothing But drifting sands. I'm sick of their tears and kisses And their pale hands.
I've sung of a hundred women And their bought lips; But out on the clean horizon I can hear the whips Of the white waves lashing the bulwarks Of great, strong ships:
And the trails that run to the westward Are shot with fire, And the winds hurl from the headland With ancient ire; And all my body itches With an old desire.
So I'll deal no more in women And the softness of night, But I'll follow the red adventure And the wind's flight; And I'll sing of the sea and of battle And of men's might.
Willard Huntington Wright [18
SONG OF THYRSIS
The turtle on yon withered bough, That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now - Such changes all await! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she's willing to be blest And takes her lover to her nest.