Follow a shadow, it still flies
you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue :
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even, shades are longest;
At noon they are or short or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they 're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
B. Jonson.
Kind are her answers,
But her performance keeps no day;
Breaks time, as dancers
From their own music when they stray.
All her free favours and smooth words
Wing my hopes in vain.
O did ever voice so sweet but only feign?
Can true love yield such delay,
Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedom
When we submit to woman so: Why do we need 'em
When, in their best, they work our woe?
There is no wisdom
Can alter ends by fate prefixt.
O why is the good of man with evil mixt?
Never were days yet called two
But one night went betwixt.
T. Campion.
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May-
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which
may
merit name of Best;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
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?
Geo. Wither.
I do confess thou ’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou ’rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind
That kisseth everything it meets:
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.
The morning rose that untouch'd stands
Arm’d with her briars, how sweet she smells ! But pluck'd and strain’d through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells :
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide
When thou hast handled been awhile,
With sere flowers to be thrown aside ;-
And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
Sir R. Ayton.
Can a maid that is well bred,
Hath a blush so lovely red,
Modest looks, wise, mild, discreet,
And a nature passing sweet,
Break her promise, untrue prove,
On a sudden change her love,
Or be won e'er to neglect
Him to whom she vow'd respect?
Such a maid, alas! I know :
O that weeds ʼmongst corn should grow !
Or a rose should prickles have,
Wounding where she ought to save!
Reason, wake, and sleep no more!
Land upon some safer shore,
Think on her and be afraid
Of a faithless, fickle maid.
Of a faithless, fickle maid
Thus true love is still betray'd :
Yet it is some ease to sing
That a maid is light of wing.
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