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Once by my carving true love's knot,

The weeping trees did prove,
That wounds and tears were both our lots,

And then I was in love,

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Once wore I bracelets made of hair,

And collars did approve ;
Once were my clothes made out of wax,

And then I was in love.

Once did I sonnet to my saint,

My soul in numbers move ;
Once did I tell a thousand lies,

And then I was in love.

Once in my breast did dangling hang

A little turtle dove ;
Once, in a word, I was a fool,

And then I was in love.

DR R. Hugues. From the third book of “ Lawes's Ayres."

FAIN would I love, but that I fear
I quickly should the willow wear ;
Fain would I marry, but men say,
When love is tied he will away ;
Then tell me, love, what shall I do,
To cure these fears, whene'er I woo?

The fair one she's a mark to all,
The brown each one doth lovely call,
The black’s a pearl in fair men's eyes,
The rest will stoop at any prize ;
Then tell me love what shall I do,
To cure these fears whene'er I woo?

Young lover know it is not I,
That wound with fear or jealousy ;
Nor do men ever feel these smarts,
Until they have confined their hearts ;
Then if you'll cure your fears, you shall
Love r.ether fair, black, brown, but all.

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DEAREST! DO NOT YOU DELAY ME. From FLETCHER's Comedy of the “ Spanish Curate," 1622. DEAREST ! do not you delay me,

Since thou know'st I must be gone ; Wind and tide, 'tis thought doth stay me,

But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odours far excel.
Oh! then speak, thou fairest fair !

Kill not him that vows to serve thee ;
But perfume this neighbouring air,

Else dull silence, sure, will starve me; 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which, being restrain'd a heart is broken.

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Sir HENRY Wotton, born 1568, died 1639.
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 ? Ye 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?

Ye curious chaunters of the wood,

That warble forth dame nature's lays,
Thinking your passion understood

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

So when my mistress shall be seen,

In sweetness of her looks and mind;
By virtue first, then choice a queen,

Tell me if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?

This song is supposed to have been inspired by the charms of the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of King James I. It is printed with additional stanzas in Chambers's “Scottish Songs," as the composition of Henry Lord Darnley, the unfortunate husband of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. The additional verses are of no great merit, and do not seem to have been the composition of Sir Henry Wotton. Dr. Percy has altered the word“ moon," in the concluding line of the first stanza, to "sun," but without sufficiently considering whether the alteration were an improvement. The “sun" is not one of the beauties of the night. The poet knew his meaning better than his critic,


Sir Robert Aytoun, born 1570, died 1638.
I Lov's thee once, I'll love no more,

Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wert before,

What reason I should be the same?
He that can love, unlov'd again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
GOD send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

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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 recal,
That if thou might elsewhere enthral;
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 our 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 at a beggar's door. From Ritson's “ Caledonian Muse "—Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth but his poems belong to English literature.


John Donne, born 1573, died 1631.
If thou beest born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights

Till age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return'st wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

No where,

Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find one let me know,

Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet do not! I would not go,

Though at next door, we might meet;
Though sho were true when you met her,
And lasted till you wrote your letter,

Yet she,

Will be,
False ere I come, to two or three.

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From “ The Forest," by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It would not wither'd be,
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,

And sent it back to me;
Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.


From “ The Forest," by Ben Jonson,

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed,
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Tho' art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

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