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Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy,

Then sigh not so, &c.


[SAAKSPEARE.] TAKE, oh take, those lips away

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn :

But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain !

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears ;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears :

But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee!




RONG not, sweet mistress of my heart!
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,

Who sues for no compassion.

Since, if my plaints were not t' approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,

But fear t' exceed my duty.

For knowing that I sue to serve

A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve

A place in her affection.

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing : Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair disdains the healing.

Thus those desires that boil so high

In any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die,

Discretion them must cover,

Yet when discretion doth bereave

The plaints that I could utter, Then your discretion may perceive

That silence is a suitor,

Silence in love bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity,

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,

My love for secret passion :
He smarteth most that hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion,

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DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

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

And 'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the 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 could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.


Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads !
Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep,
In love of those that be asleep:

For Cupid is a merry God,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweet Cupid's shafts, like destiny,
Do causeless good, or ill decree,
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go.

What fools are they that have not known
That love likes no laws but his own.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holidays,
On every tree I write her name,
And ev'ry day I read the same;

Where Honour Cupid's rival is
These miracles are seen of his.

The worth that worthiness should move
Is love, that is the bow of love ;
And love as well thee foster can
As can the mighty nobleman.

Sweet saint, 'tis true you worthy be
Yet, without love, nought worth to me!

(BARTON Booth.]

Sweet are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as air when zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.

True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun : Constant as gliding waters fall,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon; · From every other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee,

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