him:
He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.

He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall ;
His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well :
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red

difference

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him

In parcels, as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him:
For what had he to do to chide at me?

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me:
I marvel, why I answered not again :
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.

And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious
patience,

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charged withal,
I won his daughter.

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, | And portance in my travel's history: Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak, such was the process ;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse. Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She swore, in faith 't was strange, 't was pass-
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :

ing strange;

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolved I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe;
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she has mine.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE.
IF doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed,
And strong his arm and fast his seat
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colors in my cap,

Thy picture at my heart,

And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
O, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array ;
I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,

That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing,
O, tell me how to woo !

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

GRAHAM OF GARTMORE

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates ;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups pass swiftly round

With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confined,

With shriller throat shall sing
The mercy, sweetness, majesty
And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,

The enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

RIVALRY IN LOVE.

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind,

Afflictions easier grow ;
In love alone we hate to find

Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are laboring in my breast,
I beg not you would favor me;
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigors are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

WILLIAM WALSH.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

Aн, Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain.

When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day,

I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay,
Like metals in the mine;
Age from no face took more away,
Than youth concealed in thine.

But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond Love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,

Still as his mother favored you,
Threw a new flaming dart.

Each gloried in their wanton part :
To make a lover, he
Employed the utmost of his art;

To make a Beauty, she.

Though now I slowly bend to love
Uncertain of my fate,

If your fair self my chains approve,
I shall my freedom hate.

Lovers, like dying men, may well
At first disordered be,
Since none alive can truly tell
What fortune they must see.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

THE FLOWER'S NAME.

HERE's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since :
Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie!

What a name! was it love or praise? Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now, for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground; And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found.

Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I, your love, were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I, your love, were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,

And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A MATCH.

IF love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather,

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum

blane.

O MARY, at thy window be !

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.