« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Each gloried in their wanton part ;
To make a lover, he
SIR C. SEDLEY.
COUNSEL TO GIRLS
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying :
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time ;
And while ye may, go marry :
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
Tell 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
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
You common people of the skies,
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 Philome! her voice shall 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.
TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY
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 Chaeronea, 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.
THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE
It is not Bcauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair :
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :-
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Full oft he perisheth on them.
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ?
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 ;
They are but empty cells for pride ; He who the Syren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I could trust,
Yet never link'd with error find,One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose,
So indefeasible might be
THE TRUE BEAUTY
Or a coral lip admires,
Fuel to maintain his fires ;
As old Time makes these decay,
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Kindle never-dying fires :-
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Go, lovely Rosc !
That now she knows,
Tell her that's young
That hadst thou sprung