But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes | Still questioned me the story of my life, him : He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall; the battles, sieges, fortunes, I ran it through, even from my boyish days, Than that mixed in his cheek; 't was just the Of being taken by the insolent foe, difference Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him In parcels, as I did, would have gone near He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; SHAKESPEARE. OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. FROM "OTHELLO," Act 1. SC. 3. OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace; I will a round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, It was my hint to speak, such was the process; But still the house affairs would draw her thence; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished 'Twas pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : That Heaven had made her such a man she Sighs which are from lovers blown Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high, Till they quite shrink in again. JOHN DRYDEN. WHY, LOVELY CHARMER? FROM "THE HIVE." WHY, lovely charmer, tell me why, So very kind, and yet so shy? Why does that cold, forbidding air Give damps of sorrow and despair? Or why that smile my soul subdue, And kindle up my flames anew? In vain you strive with all your art, ANONYMOUS. I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. I PRITHEE send me back my heart, Yet, now I think on 't, let it lie; Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love! where is thy sympathy If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved I then am most in doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe; SIR JOHN SUCKLING. IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE. Thy picture at my heart, And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; If gay attire delight thine eye, These sounds I'll strive to catch; That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, Nae maiden lays her skaith to me; Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; GRAHAM OF GARTMORE TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups pass swiftly round When, linnet-like confined, With shriller throat shall sing The enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE. RIVALRY IN LOVE. OF all the torments, all the cares, Sure rivals are the worst! Afflictions easier grow; Companions of our woe. Sylvia, for all the pangs you see WILLIAM WALSH. TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. AH, Chloris! that I now could sit When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Your charms in harmless childhood lay, But as your charms insensibly My passion with your beauty grew, Still as his mother favored you, Each gloried in their wanton part : Though now I slowly bend to love If your fair self my chains approve, Lovers, like dying men, may well SIR CHARLES SEDLEY, THE FLOWER'S NAME. Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise? Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not, Mind the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle: Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee. Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling, And hours of fruitful breath; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, And laughs of maid and boy; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. A MATCH. IF love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessic, the Flower o' Dum. blane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. ROBERT TANNAHILL. MARY MORISON. O MARY, at thy window be ! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw : O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace ROBERT BURNS. O, SAW YE THE LASS? O, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? seen Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. |