CXXVIII

I CANNOT change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn,

Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born;

No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try,—

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, and die.

When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall,

That welcome hour that ends his smart

Will then begin your pain,

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

CXXIX

VENUS' RUNAWAY

BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy,

Called Love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind;

Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.

He hath marks about him plenty :
You shall know him among twenty.

All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

At his sight the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat.
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,

Seldom with his heart do meet.

All his practice is deceit ;

Every gift it is a bait ;

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then, the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him;
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

CXXX

IT was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding ding ; Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie.
In spring time, etc.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower

In spring time, etc.

And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime

In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXXXI

GAZE not upon the stars, fond sage,
In them no influence lies;
To read the fate of youth or age,
Look on my Helen's eyes.

Yet, rash astrologer, refrain;
Too dearly would be won
The prescience of another's pain,
If purchased by thine own.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

CXXXII

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED

GIVE me more love, or more disdain.
The torrid or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain;

The temperate affords me none.
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danæ in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed
Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then drown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

THOMAS CAREW.

CXXXIII

ON A GIRDLE

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound-
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

EDMUND Waller.

CXXXIV

TO CELIA

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine :

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

M

BEN JONSON.