Whose breast has all the wealth I have,
Save a faint carcass and a grave.
But had I as many hearts as hairs,
As many loves as love has fears,
As many lives as years have hours,
They should be all and only yours.

XXIV.

Unknown.

"WHAT WIGHT HE LOVED."

SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me,
And if such a woman move,
As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she or none
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

That she scornes the help of art,

In as many Virtues dight

As ere yet embraced a hart,

So much good as truly tride,
Some for lesse were deifide.

Wit she hath without desire

To make knowne how much she hath ;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,

Tho' perhaps not so to me!

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Onely worth could kindle love.

Such she is, and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she browne, or faire, or so,
That she be but somewhile young,
Be assured 'tis she or none

That I love, and love alone.

William Browne.

XXV.

THE INQUIRY.

AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,
Love and my sighs, thus intertalk'd:
"Tell me," said I, in deep distress,
"Where may I find my shepherdess?"

"Thou fool," said Love, "know'st thou not this, In every thing that's good, she is?

In yonder tulip go and seek,

There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek;

In yon enamell'd pansy by,

There thou shalt have her curious eye;

In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,

There wave the streamers of her blood;
In brightest lilies that there stand,
The emblems of her whiter hand;
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell":
""Tis true," said I. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union:
But on a sudden all was gone.

With that I stopt. Said Love, "these be,
Fond man, resemblances of thee;

And as these flowers, thy joy shall die,
E'en in the twinkling of an eye;

And all thy hopes of her shall wither,

Like these short sweets thus knit together."

Thomas Carew.

XXVI.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MISTRESS ELIZA WHEELER,

NAME OF AMARILLIS.

UNDER

(H.) My dearest love, since thou wilt go,
And leave me here behind thee;

For love or pity, let me know

The place where I may find thee.

(A.) In country meadows, pearl'd with dew,
And set about with lilies;

There, filling maunds with cowslips, you
May find your Amarillis.

(H.) What have the meads to do with thee,
Or with thy youthful hours?

Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be
The queen of men-not flowers.

Let country wenches make 'em fine
With posies, since 'tis fitter
For thee with richest gems to shine,
And like the stars to glitter.

(A.) You set too high a rate upon
A shepherdess so homely.

(H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one
I' th' Court that's half so comely.

I prithee stay. (A.) I must away;
(H.) Let's kiss first, then we'll sever;
(AMBO.) And tho' we bid adieu to-day,
We shall not part for ever.

THE

Robert Herrick.

XXVII.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears;-
Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.

Thomas Carew.

XXVIII.

THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.

"SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee, tell!"— It is that fountain, and that well,

Where pleasure and repentance dwell;

It is, perhaps, that passing bell

That tolls us all to heaven or hell;

And this is love, as I heard tell.

"Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!"—
It is a work on holiday:

It is December match'd with May,

When lusty woods, in fresh array,

Hear, ten months after, of the play;

And this is love, as I hear say.

"Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine !"—

It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;

It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;

It is a game where none doth gain,

The lass saith, No, and would full fain!

And this is love, as I hear saine.

"Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?”— It is a "yea," it is a "nay,"

A pretty kind of sporting fray;

It is a thing will soon away;

Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may,
And this is love, as I hear say.

Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!"—
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it so;
And, shepherd, this is love I trow.

Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.

XXIX.

TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIS NEITHER TOYING NOR TALKING.

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Some griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.

Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when Love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.
Robert Herrick.

XXX.

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.