Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The 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 mine 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 ?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to 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?
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.
LET not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove;
Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange
Man should then a monster prove?
Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise,
Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan ?
We'll be constant while we can,
You can be no more, you know.
LOVE in my bosom like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :
Ah! wanton, will you?
And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night;
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays, if I but sing:
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah! wanton, will you?
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin,
Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me!
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod,
He will repay me with annoy
Because a god;
Then sit thou softly on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me;
Spare not, but play thee.
CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, - Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows, -
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
T' OTHER day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
And what d' ye think I did ? - I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground.
One is a boy, with locks of gold
Thick curling round his face so fair;
The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair.
The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way;
His old companion walks as quick,
But speaks no word by night or day.
Where'er the old man treads, the grass
Fast fadeth with a certain doom;
But where the beauteous boy doth pass
Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom.
And thus before the sage, the boy
Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,
A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass
To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,
And make the sands more quickly run.
And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin,
And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :
"God save all here," that kind wish flies Still sweeter from his lips so sweet; "God save you kindly," Norah cries, "Sit down, my child, and rest and eat."
"Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good, We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food, There 's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone, Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone, While I can only live on Hope!
"A week ago, ere you were wed,
It was the very night before,
Upon so many sweets I fed
While passing by your mother's door,
It was that dear, delicious hour
When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower, Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."
A blush steals over Norah's face,
A smile comes over Owen's brow,
A tranquil joy illumes the place,
As if the moon were shining now;
The boy beholds the pleasing pain,
The sweet confusion he has done,
And shakes the crystal glass again,
And makes the sands more quickly run.
"Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound
Upon an endless path sublime ;
We pace the green earth round and round,
And mortals call us Love and TIME;
He seeks the many, I the few;
I dwell with peasants, he with kings.
We seldom meet; but when we do,
I take his glass, and he my wings.
"And thus together on we go,
Where'er I chance or wish to lead;
And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed.
Now on our bright predestined way
We must to other regions pass;
But take this gift, and night and day
Look well upon its truthful glass.
"How quick or slow the bright sands fall
Is hid from lovers' eyes alone,
If you can see them move at all,
Be sure your heart has colder grown.
'T is coldness makes the glass grow dry,
The icy hand, the freezing brow;
But warm the heart and breathe the sigh,
And then they 'll pass you know not how."
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