Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she be not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snowballs do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot,
Then if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
AND these with hispid leaf and blooms
Of darkened sapphire, richly swinging
The bell-flower nettle-leaved illumes
With azure light the woods; while bringing Around it hoops of insect things
With merry song and dancing wings.
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?
HALL 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 flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be grieved or 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 gain her 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?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to 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?
DID you but know when bathed in dew,
How sweet the little violet grew,
Amidst the thorny brake;
How fragrant blew the ambient air,
O'er beds of primroses so fair,
Your pillow you'd forsake.
Paler than the autumnal leaf,
O'er the wan hue of pining grief,
The cheek of sloth shall grow;
Nor can cosmetic, wash, or ball,
Nature's own favourite tints recal
If once you let them go.
WHEN sturdy March's storms are overblown And April's gentle showers are slidden down, To close the wind-chapt earth.
AIR flower that, lapt in lowly glade,
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes, on bank or spray,
Our England's lily of the May,
Our lily of the vale !
Art thou that "Lily of the field,”
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,
He showed to our mistrustful kind,
An emblem to the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care?
Not this, I trow; far brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine
Those children of the East
There, when mild autumn's early rain
Descends on parched Esdrela's plain,
And Tabor's oak-girt crest,
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