« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it ?
Before the soil hath smutched it ?
Or swan's down ever?
Or the nard in the fire ?
30 Ben Jonson.
A BRIDAL SONG.
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue ;
And sweet thyme true ;
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
With her bells dim;
All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Blessing their sense!
Be absent hence !
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
Nor chattering pie,
Beaumont and Fletcher.
You that do search for every purling spring,
Sir Philip Sidney.
SONNET. Come Sleep, o Sleep, that certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent Judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 5 Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw. Oh ! make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise, and blind of light,
10 - A rosy garland, and a weary head : And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see,
Sir Philip Sidney. XXVIII
SONNET.. To yield to those I cannot but disdain, Whose face doth but entangle foolish hearts; It is the beauty of the better parts, With which I mind my fancies for to chain. Those that have nought wherewith men's minds to gain, 5 But only curlèd locks and wanton looks, Are but like fleeting baits that have no hooks, Which may well take, but cannot well retain. He that began to yield to the outward grace, And then the treasures of the mind doth prove, He who as 'twere was with the mask in love, What doth he think whenas he sees the face ? No doubt being limed by the outward colours so, That inward worth would never let him go.
Earl of Stirling
SONNET. Oh how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 5 As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade ; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.