A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds: nay what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips

Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn;

Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed

For crystal brows there's naught within;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,

A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find,—

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly

That hides his murmurs in the rose,

My earthly Comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be
That, when my spirit wonn'd above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

MILK-MAID'S SONG. THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. COME live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, or hills, or field, Or woods and steepy mountains yield;

Where we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed our flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for my meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER.
THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
And age complains of care to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields.
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath bless'd, and sent for
food.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

ON A DAY, ALACK THE DAY!

ON a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee:

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were,

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

WOMAN'S ÍNCONSTANCY.

I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?

He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,

I might perchance have yet been thine.

But thou thy freedom did recall,

That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquer'd thee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so,
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,
To see him gain what I have lost;
The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A begging to a beggar's door.

Shall the birds in vain then valentine their

sweethearts?

Season after season tell a fruitless tale? Will not the virgin listen to their voices? Take the honey'd meaning, wear the bridal veil?

Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches?

Waits she the garlands of spring for her

dower?

Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower?

Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and beauties!

With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee;

With thy budding leafage and fresh green pastures;

And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon for me!

Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet!

Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue delight!

Lo! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer!

Bring her to my arms on the first May night.

GEORGE MEREDITH.

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule night when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco' skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleert an' blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to-France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg grew sick-as he grew heal, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And oh, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.