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I am betrayed," and her haire to

rent, And to the strandé barefote fast she

went, And cried : * Theseus, mine herté

swete, Where be ye, that I may not with

you mete? And mighte thus with beestes ben

yslaine." The hollow rockés answerede her

againe, No man she saw, and yet shone the

Moone, And hie upon a rocké she went

soone, And sawe his bargé sayling in the

sea, Cold woxe her herte, and righte

thus said she: “Meker then ye find I the beestes

wilde." Hath he not sinne, that he her thus

begilde? She cried, “O turne againe for

routhe and sinne, Thy bargé hath not all his meinie

What should I tellé more her com

plaining, It is so long, it were an heavy

thing? In her epistle, Naso telleth all, But shortly to the endé tell I shall, The goddes have her holpen for

pité, And, in the signe of Taurus, men

may see The stonés of her crowné shiné

clere, I will no more speake of this matere.




My mistress's eyes are nothing like

the sun;


Her kerchefe on a pole sticked she,
Ascaunce he should it well ysee,
And him remembre that she was

behind, And turne againe, and on the stronde

her find. But all for nought, - his way he

is ygone, And down she fell a swone upon a

stone, And up she riste, and kissed in all

her care The steppés of his feete, there he

hath fare, And to her bed right thus she spek

eth tho: “Thou bed,” (quod she) “that

hast received two, Thou shalt answere of two, and not

of one, Where is the greater parte, away

ygone? Alas, where shall I wretched wight

become? For though so be that boté none here

come, Home to my countrey dare I not for

drede. I can my selfe in this case not


Coral is far more red than her lips'

red; If snow be white, why then her

breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow

on her head. I have seen roses damask'd red and

white, But no such roses see I in her

cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more

delight Than in the breath that from my

mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, — yet well

I know That music hath a far more pleasing

sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress, when she walks, treads

on the ground; And yet by Heaven, I think my

love as rare As any she belie'd with false compare.



'Tis truth, (although this truth's a

star Too deep-enskied for all to see), As poets of grammar, lovers are

The well-heads of morality.

“Keep measure in love?" More

light befall Thy sanctity, and make it less ! Be sure I will not love at all

Where I may not love with excess. Who is the happy husband? He

Who, scanning his unwedded life, Thanks Heaven, with a conscience

free, 'Twas faithful to his future wife.


When, for the crowning vernal sweet, Among the slopes and crags I meet

The pilot's pretty daughter. Round her gentle, happy face,

Dimpled soft, and freshly fair, Danced with careless ocean grace

Locks of auburn hair: As lightly blew the veering wind, They touched her cheeks, or waved

behind, Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped; Or when to tie her shoe she stooped, Below her chin the half-curls

drooped, And veiled the pilot's daughter.


LET me not to the marriage of true

minds Admit impediments. Love is not

love Which alters when it alteration

finds, Or bends with the remover to re

move; O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never

shaken; It is the star to every wandering

bark, Whose worth's unknown, although

his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy

lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass

come; Love alters not with his brief hours

and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of

doom. If this be error, and upon me

proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Rising, she tossed them gayly back,

With gesture infantine and brief, To fall around as soft a neck

As the wild-rose's leaf. Her Sunday frock of lilac shade (That choicest tint) was neatly made, And not too long to hide from view The stout but noway clumsy shoe, And stockings' smoothly-fitting blue,

That graced the pilot's daughter. With look half timid and half droll, And then with slightly downcast

eyes, And blush 'that outward softly stole,

Unless it were the skies Whose sun-ray shifted on her cheek, She turned when I began to speak; But 'twas a brightness all her own That in her firm light step was

shown, And the clear cadence of her tone;

The pilot's lovely daughter.


O'ER western tides the fair Spring

Day Was smiling back as it withdrew, And all the harbor, glittering gay,

Returned a blithe adieu ; Great clouds above the hills and sea Kept brilliant watch, and air was

free Where last lark firstborn star shall


Were it my lot (the sudden wish)

To hand a pilot's oar and sail, Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh,

Spangled with herring-scale; By dying stars, how sweet'twould be, And dawn-blow freshening the sea, With weary, cheery pull to shore, To gain my cottage home once more, And clasp, before I reach the door,

My love, the pilot's daughter. This element beside my feet

Allures, a tepid wine of gold; One touch, one taste, dispels the

cheat 'Tis salt and nipping cold: A fisher's hut, the scene perforce

To make some special instant special

blest, By new unfolding his imprison'd

pride. Blessed are you, whose worthi

ness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.


Of narrow thoughts and manners

coarse, Coarse as the curtains that beseem With net-festoons the smoky beam, Would never lodge

my favorite dream, E'en with my pilot's daughter. To the large riches of the earth,

Endowing men in their own spite, The poor, by privilege of birth, Stand in the closest right. Yet not alone the palm grows dull With clayey delve and watery pull: And this for me, – or hourly pain. But could I sink and call it gain? Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain

To wed a pilot's daughter.


LATELY, alas! I knew a gentle boy, Whose features all were cast in

Virtue's mould, As one she had designed for Beauty's

toy, But after manned him for her own


Like her, perhaps ? — but ah! I said, Much wiser leave such thoughts

alone. So may thy beauty, simple maid, Be mine, yet all thine own. Joined in my free contented love With companies of stars above; Who, from their throne of airy

steep, Do kiss these ripples as they creep Across the boundless, darkening

deep, Low voiceful wave! hush soon to

The gentle pilot's daughter.


On every side he open was as day, That you might see no lack of

strength within; For walls and ports do only serve

alway For a pretence to feebleness and sin.

Say not that Cæsar was victorious, With toil and strife who stormed

the House of Fame, In other sense this youth was

glorious, Himself a kingdom whereso'er he



So am I as the rich, whose blessed

key Can bring him to his sweet up

locked treasure. The which he will not every hour

survey, For blunting the fine point of sel

dom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and

so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long

year set, Like stones of worth they thinly

placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you, as my

chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe

doth hide,

No strength went out to get him

victory, When all was income of its own

accord; For where he went none other was

to see, But all were parcel of their noble lord. He forayed like the subtle haze of

summer, That stilly shows fresh landscapes

to our eyes, And revolutions works without a

murmur, Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies. So was I taken unawares by this, I quite forgot my homage to confess; Yet now am forced to know, though

hard it is, I might have loved him, had I

loved him less.

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