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;
And her yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes forevermore,



Give me more love or more disdain ;

The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings equal ease unto my pain ;

The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm ; if it be love,

Like Danaë in a golden shower,
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes ; and he's possessed
Of heaven that's but from hell released ;
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ;
Give me more love or more disdain.



BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,

Nor do not use set colors for to weare,

Nor nourish special locks of vowéd haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groane,
The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane

Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare,
“What! he ?" say they of me.

“Now I dare




him :


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.
They love indeed who quake to say they love. 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
THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the

NEVER wedding, ever wooing,

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,

There be some women, Silvius, had they marked
Read you not the wrong you 're doing

In my cheek's pale hue ?
All my life with sorrow strewing,

In parcels, as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
Wed, or cease to woo.

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,

I have more cause to hate him than to love him :

For what had he to do to chide at me?
Still our days are disunited ;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
Now half quenched appears,

And, now I am remembered, scorned at me :
Damped and wavering and benighted

I marvel, why I answered not again :
Midst my sighs and tears.

But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance.


Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you 'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,

Not with age, but woe !


SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?



Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be ?

Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,
You can be no more, you know.



Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be ?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or, her well deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own ?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be ?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be ?

Love in my bosom like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah ! wanton, will you ?
And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night;
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays, if I but sing:
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:

Ah! wanton, will you ?
Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,
And bind you when you long to play,

For your offence ;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin,
Alas ! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me!

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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 ?


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
At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows, -
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose


“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);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin,
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas ! become of me?


“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
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him ;
And what d'ye think I did ? - I drank him !
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he !
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

“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.


“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.
Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom ;
But where the beauteous boy doth pass

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.
A smile o'er any brow would pass

To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,

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.
'T is coldness makes the glass grow dry,

The icy hand, the freezing brow;
But warm the heart and breathe the sigh,

And then they 'll pass you know not how."

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