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I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR.
I do not love thee for that fair
I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, -- love's bowers, Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red. Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not.
Give place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
As had Penelope the fair ;
As it by writing sealéd were :
The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould,
The like to whom she could not paint : With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind
That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain ; “She could not make the like again.” Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefest work she wrought,
On your behalf might well be sought,
I do not love thee for those soft
I do not love thee, O my fairest,
I little thought the rising fire
Would take my rest away.
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
As if the spring were all your own,
So when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind :
Tell me, if she were not designed
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine ;
Than youth concealed in thine.
To their perfection prest,
And centred in my breast.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
My passion with your beauty grew,
While 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.
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.
WAITING FOR THE GRAPES.
BEN JONSON. That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand
times have said,
And a thousand times more I have sworn it, WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your TIME.
mien That you doubt my affection - or scorn it.
Ah me! When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
Not a single grain of senso is in the whole of And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
these pretences In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; For rejecting your lover's petitions ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Had I windows in my bosom, O how gladly I'd Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
expose 'em ! I see their antique pen would have expressed To undo your fantastic suspicions. Even such a beauty as you master now.
Ah me! So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ;
You repeat I've known you long, and you hint And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
I do you wrong, They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; In beginning so late to pursue ye ; For we, which now behold these present days, But 't is folly to look glum because people did not Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.
CHILD AND MAIDEN.
Ai, Chloris ! could I now but sit
As unconcerned as when
No happiness or pain !
And praised the coming day,
In a grapery one walks without looking at the
stalks, While the bunches are green that they 're bear
ing : All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the
Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring.
But when time has swelled the grapes to a richer | Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, style of shapes,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us Oft she rejects, but never once offends. and to madden,
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults te 0,'t is then that mortals pant while they gaze on
hide ; Bacchus' plant,
If to her share some female errors fall, O, 't is then, — will my simile serve ye?
Look on her face, and you 'll forget them all. Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like
a vine ?
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
She was a phantom of delight
If it be true that any beauteous thing
of J. E. TAYLOR.
THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE.
The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
Forgive me if I cannot turn away
MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation
of J. E. TAYI.OR.
The year stood at its equinox,
And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing ; I met a maid with shining locks
Where milky kine were lowing.
She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.
To run down by the early train,
Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north blow again,
And mark the sprouting thistle
Its green and tender bristle ;
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And butt their patient mothers. Alas! one point in all my plan
My serious thoughts demur to : Seven years have passed for maid and man;
Seven years have passed for her too.
Not rosy or too rosy ;
Some husband keeps her cosey,
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.
She milked into a wooden pail,
And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale,
That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical,
Too pointless for the city.
She kept in time without a beat,
As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet,
Or squeezed it with her fingers ; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet
As many a practised singer's.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
Such is her beauty as no arts
Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is noblest being good. Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands.
Where oft virtne splits her mast;
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Where sin waits not on delight;.
Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs
lust. She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me.
ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Ofttimes I hover ;
Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming ; They've hushed the minster bell ; The organ 'gins to swell;
She's coming, coming! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes, — she's here, she's past !
May Heaven go with her!
Meekly and duly ;
With thoughts unruly.
Lingering a minute,
Angels within it.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow,
the dove, The linnet, and thrush say “I love, and I love !" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so ng; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud
song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny
warm weather, And singing and loving—all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The
green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my Love, and my Love loves me."
GO, LOVELY ROSE.
Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
• SAMUEL COLERIDGE.