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My passion with your beauty grew,

While Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'll you,

Threw a new flaming dart :
Each gloried in their wanton part ;

To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

Sir C. Sedley



I cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn,
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born ;
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try, -
And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, and die.
When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,

And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour that ends his smart

Will then begin your pain,
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.

J. Vilmol, Earl of Rochester



Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying : And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, go marry :
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

R. Herrick



Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore ;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

Colonel Lovelace



You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ?
You 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?
You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own, What are you, when the Rose is blown ? So when my Mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her 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



Daughter 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
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent ;--
Though later born than to have known the days
Wherein your father flourish’d, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

J. Milton



He that loves a rosy cheek

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
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
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

T. Carew


TO DIANEME Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free: Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air ; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone,

R. Herrick.

CXIV Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise ;

Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise

Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as Heaven art fair and young,

Thine eyes like twin stars shining ;
But ere another day be sprung

All these will be declining.
Then winter comes with all his fears,

And all thy sweets shall borrow ;
Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears, ---
And I too late shall sorrow !



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 hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

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

May read in thee :
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair !

E. IValler

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