WHAT guile is this—that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold;
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair may scarce be told?
Is it, that men's frail eyes which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare ;
And being caught, may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?
Take heed, therefore, mine eyes! how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net ;
In which, if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondness it were for any, being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be.
LONGWHILE I Sought to what I might compare
Those powerful eyes, which lighten my dark sprite;
Yet found I nought on earth, to which I dare
Resemble the' image of their goodly light.
Not to the sun, for they do shine by night;
Not to the moon, for they are changed never;
Not to the stars, for they have purer sight;
Not to the fire, for they consume not ever;
Not to the lightning, for they still presever;
Not to the diamond, for they are more tender;
Not unto crystal, for them nought may sever;
Nor unto glass, such baseness might offend her.
Then, to the Maker's self they likest be;
Whose light doth lighten all that here we see!
FAIR Bosom, fraught with Virtue's richest treasure-
The nest of Love, the lodging of Delight,
The bower of Bliss, the paradise of Pleasure,
The sacred harbour of her heavenly sprite!
How was I ravish'd with your lovely sight,
And my frail thoughts too rashly led astray,
While diving deep, through amorous insight,
On the sweet spoil of beauty they did prey:
And tween her paps, like early fruit in May,
Whose harvest seem'd to hasten now apace,
They loosely did their wanton wings display;
And there to rest themselves did boldly place!
Sweet Thoughts! I envy your so happy rest,
Which oft I wish'd—yet never was so blest,
RUDELY thou wrongest my dear Heart's desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride;
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is of the world, unworthy, most envied !
For in those lofty looks is close implied
Scorn of base things, disdain of foul dishonour ;
Threatening rash eyes, which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they dare not to look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour;
That boldness, Innocence bears in her eyes;
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.
Never was in this world aught worthy tried,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride?
THE glorious image of her Maker's beauty,
My sovereign Saint! the idol of my thought!
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of duty,
To' accuse of pride, or rashly blame for aught:
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly-born,
And with the crew of blessed saints upbrought,
Each of which did her with their gifts adorn;
The bud of joy, the blossom of the morn,
The beam of light, whom mortal eyes admire;
What reason is it, then, but she should scorn
Base things, who to her love too bold aspire ?
Such heavenly forms ought rather worship'd be,
Than dare be lov'd by men of mean degree!
LIKE as a huntsman, after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escap'd away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their prey;
So, after long pursuit and vain essay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle Deer return'd the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook;
There, she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide,
Till I in hand her's yet half-trembling took,
And with her own good-will her firmly tied:
Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won-with her own will beguil'd.
John Donne, à doctor in divinity, but remembered more as a poet than a preacher, was born at London in 1575. After participating in all the dissipation of youth, caressed by the witty and the gay, his father having bequeathed him the sum of 3,0001. he entered into the church; an office to which he aspired in early life, but which the prejudices of his parent, who was of the Roman catholic persuasion, had prevented his assuming. Ardent in whatever he undertook, he became as eminent for his piety, as before he had been fashionable for his levity; and was deservedly esteemed for the eloquence of his pulpit discourses. He was also respected in the state, whose concerns he was frequently employed to negotiate.
Shortly after entering into holy orders, he married Anne, daughter of Sir Thomas Moore, Lieutenant of the Tower, by which proceeding he became involved in many difficulties; as the union had been contracted in opposition to the wishes of his father-in-law, who for a long time appeared inexorably offended with both parties. Dr. Donne died on March 31, 1631; having survived his lady, whom he tenderly loved, nearly fourteen years. He was buried in the cathedral of St. Paul, of which he had been Dean, and where his abilities had been often successfully exerted. His amatory compositions, though unquestionably the effusions of feeling, and once high in general estimation, are too much allayed by the pedantry of the times in which he flourished, to entitle them to a copious selection.
SEND home my long-stray'd eyes to me, Which, oh! too long have dwelt on thee; But if they there have learn'd such ill, Such forc'd fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain ;
But if it be taught, by thine,
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And break both
Word and oath,
Keep it still-'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know and see thy lies;
And may laugh and joy when thou
Art in anguish,
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou dost now.
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