No, nor her steadfast constancy, can deter My vassal heart from ever honoring her. Say, if she frown when you that word rehearse, MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. Give me more love, or more disdain, Give me a storm; if it be love, Disdain, that torrent will devour SONG. Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties' orient deep, These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more, whither do stray Ask me no more, whither doth haste Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downward fall in dead of night; For, in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. The idea may be found in an old French saying, quoted by Lovelace: "Donne moi plus de pitie ou plus de creaulte, car pas ce je ne puis pas vivre, ne morir." Ask me no more, if east or west, William Browne. Born in Devonshire (1590-1645), Browne was educated at Oxford. He wrote "Britannia's Pastorals," "The Shepherd's Pipe," "The Inner Temple Masque," and other poems. These were popular in his own day, but fell afterward into neglect. The best of them were written before he was twenty years of age, and he published none after thirty. "The Siren's Song" is one of the most precious felicities of genius. It is rare in literary history that so much promise is found so inexplicably stunted and silenced by time. George Wither seems to have had a high estimate of Browne's gifts, and wrote: "Thou art young, yet such a lay Never graced the month of May, As (if they provoke thy skill) Thou canst fit unto the quill." SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE? Shall I tell you whom I love? Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As ne'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: Reason masters every sense, Modest in her most of mirth; 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 somewhile young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, THE SIREN'S SONG. FROM "THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE." Steer, hither steer your wingéd pines, Here lie Love's undiscovered mines, A prey to passengers,- Perfumes far sweeter than the best Nor any to oppose you, save our lips; Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. For swelling waves,―our panting breasts, Exchange, and be a while our guests; The compass, Love shall hourly sing; We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. Robert Herrick. Herrick (1591-1674) was the son of a goldsmith of London. He was educated for the Church, and obtained from Charles I. the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. From this he was ejected during the civil wars. His works consist chiefly of religious and Anacreontic poems in strange association; and his rank among the lyric writers of his day is with the highest. He seems to have repented of the impure character of some of his verse, for he writes: "For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times- Herrick's vein of poetry is of a high quality when he is at his best; but sometimes he sinks to mere doggerel. His verses to flowers, for which he seems to have had a genuine love, are masterpieces of tenderness and grace. TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, As quick a growth to meet decay We die As your hours do, and dry Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again. NOT A PROPHET EVERY DAY. 'Tis not every day that I No, but when the spirit fills As the Godhead doth indite. Thus enraged, my lines are hurled, Look how next the holy fire ODE TO BEN JONSON. Say, how or when The Dog, the Triple Tun; As made us nobly wild, not mad, And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine? Come, my Corinna, come, and coming, mark Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. There's not a budding boy or girl this day And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the Many a jest told of the keys' betraying east, Above an hour since; yet you not drest— Nay, not so much as out of bed? And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, When as a thousand virgins on this day Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care Besides, the childhood of the day has kept Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in pray ing: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying. Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, So when or you or I are made All love, all liking, all delight, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. TO DIANEME. Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes |