« VorigeDoorgaan »
Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship’s flatteries.
By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
GIVE ME MORE LOVE OR MORE
The torrid or the frozen zone
The temperate affords me none;
Like Danaë in a golden shower,
Disdain, that torrent will devour
BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,
Nor do not use set colors for to weare,
Nor nourish special locks of vowéd haire,
Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare,
“Now I dare
FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT."
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
He cannot love: No, no! let him alone."
THINK not I love him, though I ask for him ; And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. 'Tis but a peevish boy :- yet he talks well ;
But what care I for words? yet words do well, Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art ;
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. But you, faire maids, at length this true shall But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes
finde, That his right badge is but worne in the hearte. He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue prove :
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well :
A little riper and more lusty red
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked
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.
Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Soon you 'll make them grow
Not with age, but woe !
THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Be she fairer than the day,
If she be not so to me,
Why then ask of silly man,
Shall my foolish heart be pined
If she be not so to me,
Shall a woman's virtues move
If she be not such to me,
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
And unless that mind I see,
Love in my bosom like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his feet;
Ah ! wanton, will you ?
With pretty slight,
The livelong night;
Ah! wanton, will you ?
Will whip you hence,
For your offence ;
If he gainsay me!
LET not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove ; Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange
Man should then a monster prove ?
CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go.
Cupid and my Campaspe played
“God save all here,” – that kind wish flies
Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; “God save you kindly," Norah cries,
“Sit down, my child, and rest and eat."
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,
We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food,
There 's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone,
Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,
While I can only live on - Hope !
T' Other day, as I was twining
“A week ago, ere you were wed,
It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed
While passing by your mother's door, It was that dear, delicious hour
When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,
Since then, indeed, I've needed naught.”
A blush steals over Norah's face,
A smile coines over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,
As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,
The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,
And makes the sands more quickly run.
LOVE AND TIME.
“Dear Norah, tre are pilgrims, bound
Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,
And mortals call us Love and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few;
I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,
I take his glass, and he my wings.
Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold
Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way; His old companion walks as quick,
But speaks no word by night or day.
Fast fadeth with a certain doom ;
Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy
Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,
A crystal glass with diamond sands.
To see him frolic in the sun,
And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :
“And thus together on we go,
Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way
We must to other regions pass ; But take this gift, and night and day
Look well upon its truthful glass. “How quick or slow the bright sands íall
Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, If you can see them move at all,
Be sure your heart has colder grown.
The icy hand, the freezing brow;
And then they 'll pass you know not how."