JAMES SHIRLEY. 1594-1666. ["Poems." 1646.] TO ODELIA. HEALTH to my fair Odelia! Some that know Since I beheld thy lovely brow, But unto me, Whose thoughts are still on thee, By thy black eyes, 'tis but an hour ago. That mistress I pronounce but poor in bliss, That, when her servant parts, Gives not as much with her last kiss, As will maintain two hearts Till both do meet To taste what else is sweet. Is 't fit Time measure love, or our affection it? Cherish that heart, Odelia, that is mine, Dispatch but from thy southern clime But be so kind To send by the next wind; And many accidents do wait on war. TAKING LEAVE WHEN HIS MISTRESS WAS TO RIDE. How is it my ungentle fate, When love commanded me to wait When we joined ceremonious breath, And lips, that took a leave like death, With a sad parting thought oppressed, Did it leave mine, to glide into her breast? Or was it, when like Pallas she Was mounted, and I gazed to see, My heart then looking through mine eye, Did after her out of that window fly? 'Twas so, and 'cause I did not ride, Nay, then, attend thy charge, nor fear But smile at night, and be her guest, And if at any mention made Of me, she sigh, say all thy travail's paid. But when she's gently laid to rest, And thou shalt hear her soul, but see But what's all this, when I am here, Or bring her back, or see thy cell no more. THE KISS. I could endure your eye, although it shot Your voice, although it charmed mine ear, had not But, while I on your lip would dwell, My ravished heart leaped from his cell, For, looking back into my breast I found that room without a guest. Return the heart you stole thus with a kiss, Or I'll forgive the theft, to change a bliss, I ne'er till now believed it truth; That lovers' hearts were at their mouth; Now by experience I may say, That men may kiss their hearts away. RICHARD CRASHAW. 1615(?) 1650. ["Steps to the Temple," etc. 1646.] OUT OF THE ITALIAN. A SONG. To thy lover, Dear, discover That sweet blush of thine that shameth It discloses) All the flowers that Nature nameth. In free air Flow thy hair; That no more Summer's best dresses Be beholden For their golden Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses. O deliver Love his quiver, From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, Where Apollo Cannot follow, Feathered with his mother's sparrows. The air does woo thee, Winds cling to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee, Storm and thunder Would sit under, And keep silence round about thee. But if Nature's Common creatures So dear glories dare not borrow: Owes a duty To my loving lingering sorrow. When to end me Death shall send me All his terrors to affright me: Thine eyes' Graces Gild their faces, And those terrors shall delight me. When my dying Life is flying, Those sweet airs that often slew me |