I HAD Sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to be a maid, For we quite agreed in doubting whether matrimony paid; Besides, we had our higher loves, fair science ruled my heart, 'Well, good by, chum!" I took her hand, for the time had come to go. And she said her young affections were all wound My going meant our parting, when to meet, we up in art. did not know. I had lingered long, and said farewell with a very heavy heart; For although we were but friends, 't is hard for honest friends to part. "Good-by, old fellow! don't forget your friends beyond the sea, And some day, when you've lots of time, drop a line or two to me." The words came lightly, gayly, but a great sob, just behind, Welled upward with a story of quite a different kind. And then she raised her eyes to mine, great liquid eyes of blue, Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like violet cups of dew: One long, long glance, and then I did, what I never did before Perhaps the tears meant friendship, but I'm sure the kiss meant more. WILLIAM B TIKRITI "O, never," said she, "could I think of en- Consists not in the multitude of friends, shrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim; But yon little god upon roses reclining, But in the worth and choice. Cynthia's Revels. COWPER. BEN JONSON. We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of Burns with one love, with one resentment glows. A generous friendship no cold medium knows, him." So the bargain was struck; with the little god Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, laden, She joyfully flew to her home in the grove. "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you 're not the first maiden In action faithful, and in honor clear; POPE. Who came but for Friendship, and took away Like the stained web that whitens in the sun, Love!" FRAGMENTS. FRIENDSHIP. THOMAS MOORE. Grow pure by being purely shone upon. Lalla Rookh: The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. T. MOORE. Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died. Epitaph on the Hon. S. Harcourt. Though last, not least, in love! Julius Casar, Act iii. Sc. 1. FAITHFUL FRIENDS. SHAKESPEARE. Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us in Our prosperity, with the least gust drop off In the autumn of adversity. 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 SHAKESPEARE. O MISTRESS MINE. FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT II. SC. 3. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 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, TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. As midsummer flower, Or hawk of the tower; So joyously, Or hawk of the tower; Sweet Pomander, Stedfast of thought, 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 More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, SHAKESPEARE. THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. FROM AN HOURES RECREATION IN MUSICKE," 1606. 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, RICHARD ALLISON, 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. 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; |