SONNET XVIII. My love, I cannot thy rare beauties place The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. For all the Eastern Indian golden pelf, Thy red and white with purest fair atones. Matchless for beauty, Nature hath thee framed, Only unkind and cruel art thou named. DR. DONNE, Was born in 1573, and died in 1631. His biographer, Isaac Walton, represents his oratory in the pulpit as extremely edifying; and Dryden was of opinion that his Satires" when "translated into numbers, and English," would be generally admired. As Pope has thus translated them, every reader is able to form his own judgment on the truth of this opinion. His poems were printed together in one volume duodecimo. London, 1719. SONG. Go, and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible, go see; Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee: Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befel thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know, Yet do not, I would not go, Tho' at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False ere I come to two or three. SONG. I NEVER stoop'd so low as they For sense and understanding may My love, tho' silly, is more brave, BEN JONSON, Born in 1574, and died in 1637. SONG. COME, my Celia, let us prove, But the sweet theft to reveal, To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been. |