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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?

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?

JOHN LYLY.

GEORGE WITHER.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

DEATH AND CUPID.

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 ?

Ah! who but oft hath marveled why

The gods, who rule above, Should e'er permit the young to die,

The old to fall in love?

Ah ! why should hapless human kind

Be punished out of season ? Pray listen, and perhaps you ’ll find

My rhyme may give the reason.

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 !

Death, strolling out one summer's day,

Met Cupid, with his sparrows; And, bantering in a merry way,

Proposed a change of arrows.

Agreed ! ” quoth Cupid.

"I foresee The queerest game of errors ; For you the King of Hearts will be,

And I'll be King of Terrors !”

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,

And so 't was done ; alas, the day

That multiplied their arts !

Each from the other hore 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!

Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a maiden's blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
('T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

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 ?

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer,

all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette) ;
Of look at me and call me to you
(Words that, while they greet, go through you);
Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not,
Bridewort, in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss,
And literally, breathing bliss !

LEIGH HUNT,

THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow

i 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.

EVERY wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage

Entered in the book of fate, But the names were also written

Of the patient pair that wait.

ROBERT BURNS.

LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.

Blessings then upon the morning

When my friend, with fondest look, By the solemn rites' permission,

To himself his mistress took, And the destinies recorded

Other two within their book.

While the priest fulfilled his office,

Still the ground the lovers eyer, And the parents and the kinsmen

Aimed their glances at the bride ; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins

Who were waiting at her side.

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. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,

Three there were that stood beside her ;

One was dark, and one was fair; But nor fair nor dark the other,

Save her Arab eyes and hair ; Neither dark nor fair I call her,

Yet she was the fairest there.

While her groomsman

shall I own it? Yes, to thee, and only thee Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden

Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought: “How blest the bridal

Where the bride were such as she !"

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