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Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her :

The D take her!

Sir 7. Suckling




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In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire :

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark ! how the strings awake :
And, though the moving hand approach not near,

Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try ;

Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove ; Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre !
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

4. Cowley




HALL I, wasting in despair,
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May -

If she be not so to me
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?

Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;

If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

G. Wither



HENCE, all you vain delights,

Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy,
O sweetest Melancholy !




"HERE is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow :
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still ;

Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, – Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!





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Kindles in clothes a wantonness :-
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, -
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise

every part.

R. Herrick




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THENAS in silks my Julia goes

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

R. Herrick



3 'Y Love in her attire doth shew her wit,

It doth so well become her :
For every season she hath dressings fit,

For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.


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