CHARIS, HER TRIUMPH. Ben Jonson. SEE the chariot at hand here of Love! Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, And, enamored, do wish, so they might That they still were to run by her side, Do but look on her eyes! they do light As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace As alone there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! GO, LOVELY ROSE. Edmund Waller. 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, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share SERENADE. From Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. William Shakespeare. WHO is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? The heaven such grace did lend her, Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. To help him of his blindness, Then to Silvia let us sing, Upon the dull earth dwelling: STILL TO BE NEAT, STILL TO BE DREST. From THE SILENT WOMAN. Ben Jonson. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed, Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. SONG. Hartley Coleridge. SHE is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, But now her looks are coy and cold, Than smiles of other maidens are. COUNTY GUY. From QUENTIN DURWARD. Sir Walter Scott. АH! County1 Guy the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade, To beauty shy, by lattice high, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know - TO A CHILD OF QUALITY. FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704; THE AUTHOR SUPPOS'D FORTY. Matthew Prior. LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, Were summon'd by her high command, 1 County, count or lord. |