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TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
"ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ;
ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA
JOU meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
You common people of the skies,
Ye violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known
As if the spring were all your own,
Ye curious chanters of the wood
That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise ?
So when my Mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks and mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?
Sir H. Wotton
TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY
AUGHTER to that good earl, once President
Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that parliament
Though later born than to have known the days
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE
I As crystal brow, thermoon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair :
Tell me not of your starry eyes,
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
These are but gauds : nay what are lips ?
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ?
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there 's nought within ;
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
One in whose gentle bosom I
My earthly Comforter ! whose love
THE TRUE BEAUTY
E that loves a rosy cheek
Or a coral lip admires,
Fuel to maintain his fires;
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires :
Where these are not, I despise
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
O, lovely Rose !
That now she knows,
Tell her that's young
That hadst thou sprung
Small is the worth