AN INUECTIUE AGAINST LOUE.
ALL is not golde that shineth bright in show,
Not euery floure good, as faire to sight,
The deepest streames aboue doe calmest flow,
And strongest poisons oft the taste delight.
The pleasant baite doth hide the harmfull
hooke,
And false deceit can lend a friendly looke.
Loue is the gold whose outward hew doth passe,
Whose first beginnings goodly promise make
Of pleasures faire, and fresh as Sommer's grasse,
Which neither sunne can parch nor wind can
shake ;
But when the mould should in the fire be
tride,
The gold is gone, the drosse doth still abide.
Beautie, the floure so fresh, so faire, so gay
So sweet to smell, so soft to touch and tast ;
As seemes it should endure by right for aye,
And neuer be with any storme defast;
But when the baleful southerne wind doth
blow,
Gone is the glory which it erst did show.
Loue is the streame, whose waues so calmly flow
As might intice men's minds to wade therein;
Loue is the poison mixt with sugar so,
As might by outward sweetnesse liking win,
But as the deepe o'erflowing stops thy breath
So poyson once receiu'd brings certaine death.
Loue is the baite, whose taste the fish deceiues,
And makes them swallow down the choking hooke;
Loue is the face whose fairnesse iudgement reaues,
And makes thee trust a false and fainèd looke;
But as the hooke the foolish fish doth kill,
So flatt'ring lookes the lover's life doth spill.
FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF LAWES'S AYRES.
FAIN would I love, but that I fear
I quickly should the willow wear;
Fain would I marry, but men say
When love is tied he will away;
Then tell me, love, what shall I do
To cure these fears, whene'er I- woo?
The fair one she's a mark to all,
The brown each one doth lovely call,
The black's a pearl in fair men's eyes,
The rest will stoop at any prize;
Then tell me, love, what shall I do
To cure these fears, whene'er I woo?
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?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
I'll count your power not worth a pin;
Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god ;
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.
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
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal on 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! hath she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
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 ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night;
Strike I my 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:
Whist! wanton, still you!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offense;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
Each from the other bore away
A portion of his darts.
And that explains the reason why, Despite the gods above,
The young are often doomed to die, The old to fall in love!
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.
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.
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.
LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.
AN exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss,
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odors, and bright hues !
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies ;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom !
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.
What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos !
A letter comes, just gathered.
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
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