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COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION.

WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED | How could he see to do them? having made one,

TIME.

SONNET CVI.

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to
praise.

SHAKESPEARE.

O MISTRESS MINE.

FROM "TWElfth night," ACT II. SC. 3.

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love 's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SHAKESPEARE.

PORTIA'S PICTURE.

FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE," ACT III. SC. 2.

FAIR Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips,
Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar

Should sunder such sweet friends: Here in her hairs

The painter plays the spider; and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs: But her eyes,

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MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning,
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander;
Stedfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find

So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

JOHN SKELTON.

THE FORWARD VIOLET THUS DID

I CHIDE.

SONNET XCIX.

THE forward violet thus did I chide :

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? the purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.

SHAKESPEARE.

THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. FROM "AN HOURE'S RECREATION IN MUSICKE," 1605.

THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rosebuds filled with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,

Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

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RICHARD ALLISON.

GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS.

MY SWEET SWEETING.

FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII.

Aн, my sweet sweeting;
My little pretty sweeting,

My sweeting will I love wherever I go;
She is so proper and pure,

Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,

There is none such, you may be sure,
As my sweet sweeting.

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 sealed were:

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Time shall moult away his wings,

Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen in her place.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

ON a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower
Where the heavenly muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That ever eye did yet behold.
It is Phillis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherd's joy,
She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.
Who would not that face admire?

Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire?

Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

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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
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

SIR HENRY WOTTON

CONSTANCY.

OUT upon it. I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. PHILLIS is my only joy

Faithless as the wind or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.
If with a frown

I am cast down,
Phillis, smiling
And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind
I forgive her all her tricks ;

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Madam, alas! your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived; for I
A beauty know of richer grace
(Sweet, be not angry), 't is your face.
Hence, then, O, learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me :
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love,
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty ;
Which, had you once but gazed upon,
You could, except yourself, love none :
What then you cannot love, let me,
That face I can, you cannot see.

Now you have what to love, you'll say,
What then is left for me, I pray?
My face, sweet heart, if it please thee;
That which you can, I cannot see :
So either love shall gain his due,
Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

Love, that to the voice is near,
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still looks on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odors of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES.

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, me thinks, how sweetly flowes
That liquefaction of her clothes.

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No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome
But serves her for familiar wear;
The far-fetched diamond finds its home
Flashing and smouldering in her hair;
For her the seas their pearls reveal ;
Art and strange lands her pomp supply
With purple, chrome, and cochineal,

Ochre, and lapis lazuli ;

The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments,

Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative To profit so by Eden's blame.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

THE COMPLIMENT.

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.

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