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 In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; SHAKESPEARE. O MISTRESS MINE. FROM "TWElfth night," ACT II. SC. 3. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 't is not hereafter; In delay there lies no plenty, SHAKESPEARE. PORTIA'S PICTURE. FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE," ACT III. SC. 2. FAIR Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god 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, MERRY Margaret, As midsummer flower, Or hawk of the tower; So courteous, so kind, 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 One blushing shame, another white despair; More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 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, They look like rosebuds filled with snow; 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. RICHARD ALLISON. GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. MY SWEET SWEETING. FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII. Aн, my sweet sweeting; My sweeting will I love wherever I go; Full, steadfast, stable, and demure, There is none such, you may be sure, 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, And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair; Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again But the spite on 't is, no praise 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 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. PHILLIS THE FAIR. ON a hill there grows a flower, Fringed all about with gold, And did blind her little boy. 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. 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: 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; I am cast down, Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, Now you have what to love, you'll say, THOMAS RANDOLPH. WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Love, that to the voice is near, The delightful nightingale. Love, that still looks on your eyes, Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, that still may see your cheeks, Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, to whom your soft lip yields, Never, never shall be missing. WILLIAM BROWNE. WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES. WHENAS in silks my Julia goes, No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome 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. |