Thou the fuel, and the flame;
Thou in heaven, and here, the same;
Thou the wooer, and the wooed;
Thou the hunger, and the food;
Thou the prayer, and the prayed;
Thou what is or shall be said.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

ROSALINE.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling Heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whereas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth
grace;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,

Where Nature moulds the dew of light

To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,

She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace;

And, bending back her head, looked up,

And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,

And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride.
COLERIDGE.

THE LILY OF NITHSDALE.

SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,

She's gane to dwall in heaven; Ye're ower pure, quoth the voice of God,

For dwalling out of heaven!

O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie?

O what'll she do in heaven? — She'll mix her ain thoughts with angels' sangs,

An' make them mair meet for heaven.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,

Low there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,

Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudness' self wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lilie new cut i' the bud,

An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye;

AND passing here through evening dew,

He hastened happy to her door,
But found the old folk only two
With no more footsteps on the floor
To walk again below the skies
Where beaten paths do fall and rise.

For she wer gone from earthly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep
Until the good again do rise
A joy to souls they left to weep.
The rose were dust that bound her
brow:

The moth did eat her Sunday cape;
Her frock were out of fashion now;
Her shoes were dried up out of
shape.

WILLIAM BARNES.

Cold woxe her herte, and righte thus said she:

"Meker then ye find I the beestes wilde."

Hath he not sinne, that he her thus begilde?

She cried, "O turne againe for routhe and sinne,

Thy bargé hath not all his meinie in,"

Her kerchefe on a pole sticked she,
Ascaunce he should it well ysee,
And him remembre that she was
behind,

And turne againe, and on the stronde her find.

But all for nought, - his way he is ygone,

And down she fell a swone upon a stone,

And up she riste, and kissed in all her care

The steppés of his feete, there he hath fare,

And to her bed right thus she speketh tho:

"Thou bed," (quod she) "that hast received two,

Thou shalt answere of two, and not

I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;

And yet by Heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belie'd with false compare.

SHAKSPEARE.

SENTENCES

'Tis truth, (although this truth's a

star

Too deep-enskied for all to see), As poets of grammar, lovers are The well-heads of morality.