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I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair,
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.

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,
Than doth the sun the candle-light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just

As had Penelope the fair ;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,

As it by writing sealéd were :
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would,

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,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

I do not love thee for those soft
Red coral lips I 've kissed so oft ;
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech whence music still is heard,
Though from those lips a kiss being taken
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.

I do not love thee, O my fairest,
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar, which stands under
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ;
Though that neck be whiter far
Than towers of polished ivory are.


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I little thought the rising fire

Would take my rest away.

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 designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?

Your charms in harmless childhood lay

Like metals in a mine ;
Age from no face takes more away

Than youth concealed in thine.
But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,

And centred in my breast.


My passion with your beauty grew,

While Cupid at my heart

Still as his mother favored you

Threw a new flaming dart :
It was a beauty that I saw,

Each gloried in their wanton part;
So pure, so perfect, as the frame

To make a lover, he
Of all the universe were lame

Employed the utmost of his art ;
To that one figure, could I draw,

To make a beauty, she.
Or give least line of it a law :

A skein of silk without a knot !
A fair march made without a halt!
A curious form without a fault !
A printed book without a blot!

All beauty !-- and without a spot.

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.

Ah me!





Ai, Chloris ! could I now but sit

As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget

No happiness or pain !
When I the dawn used to admire,

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.

Ah me!

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.
Ah me! Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,

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 ?
Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy.

Ah me!





She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

If it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,
Such I believe my love ; for as in her
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her Creator,
I have no care for any other thing,
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth,
Enamored through the eyes,
Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth,
And through them riseth to the Primal Love,
As to its end, and honors in admiring;
For who adores the Maker needs must love his
MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation

of J. E. TAYLOR.


The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ;
Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires.
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For 0, how good, how beautiful, must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove !



Forgive me if I cannot turn away
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly

For they are guiding stars, benignly giren
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,
I live and love in God's peculiar light.

MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation

of J. E. TAYI.OR.

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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
Set up on waste patch of the lane

Its green and tender bristle ;
And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,

Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,

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.
Perhaps my rose is over-blown,

Not rosy or too rosy ;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own

Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown, –
Good by, my wayside posy!


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.


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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.
Women's feet run still astray
If to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court,

Where oft virtne splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,

Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely cannot sit
Where vice is enthroned for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best

Where sin waits not on delight;.
Without mask, or ball, or feast,

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,
Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover ;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,

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!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly ;
I will not enter there,
To súlly your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,

Angels within it.





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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 ! 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.


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