LXXXIII TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind TE That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, True, a new mistress now I chase, And with a stronger faith embrace Yet this inconstancy is such I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Colonel Lovelace LXXXIV ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA YOU meaner beauties of the night, YOU Which poorly satisfy our eyes You common people of the skies, Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known As if the spring were all your own, Ye curious chanters of the wood That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise? So when my Mistress shall be seen Sir H. Wotton LXXXV TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY D AUGHTER to that good earl, once President Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till the sad breaking of that parliament At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent ;· Though later born than to have known the days So well your words his noble virtues praise, LXXXVI THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE T is not Beauty I demand, IT A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : Tell me not of your starry eyes, A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks These are but gauds: nay what are lips? And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good? Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. • For crystal brows there's nought within; Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, One in whose gentle bosom I My earthly Comforter! whose love Anon. LXXXVII But a smooth and steadfast mind, Hearts with equal love combined, Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. T. Carew LXXXVIII TO DIANEME WEET, be not proud of those two eyes Nor be you proud, that you can see R. Herrick LXXXIX Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young In deserts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : |