THERE IS NONE, O, NONE BUT YOU

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:

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And thou in this shalt find thy monument
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
Shakespeare.

CXXI

THERE IS NONE, O, NONE BUT YOU

THERE is none, O, none but you,

That from me estrange your sight,

Whom mine eyes affect to view

Or chained ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move,

In you I all graces find;

Such is the effect of Love,

To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust,

Only seem you fair to me;

Yet prove truly kind and just,
For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight!
That, surveying all your looks,
Endless volumes I may write

And fill the world with envied books:

Which when after-ages view,

All shall wonder and despair,—
Woman to find a man so true,
Or man a woman half so fair.

T. Campion.

CXXII

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

GIVE place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

I think Nature hath lost the mould

Where she her shape did take;

Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

She may be well compared
Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen nor heard
That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope ;

In word and eke in deed steadfast.
-What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her roseal colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,

Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding as a stray.

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The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
All vice she wholly doth refuse,
And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck her in such honesty,

Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,
As doth the gillyflower a weed;
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?

-For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give;
When death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

John Heywood.

CXXIII

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear

By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when

my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Sir H. Wotton.

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CXXIV

THERE is a Lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.