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VENUS' RUNAWAY

Beauties, have ye seen this toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.

He hath marks about him plenty:
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,

That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.

All his practice is deceit;

Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then, the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him;
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

Ben Jonson

THE KISS

1. Among thy fancies tell me this:
What is the thing we call a kiss?
I shall resolve ye what it is:

2.

Chor.

It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips all cherry-red,
By love and warm desires fed;
And makes more soft the bridal bed.

It is an active flame that flies

First to the babies of the eyes,

And charms them there with lullabies;

Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries.

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,

It frisks and flies, now here, now there;
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near;

Chor. And here, and there, and everywhere.

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1.

Has it a body?—2. Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings:

Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings.

THE WHITE ROSE

Robert Herrick

SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN

MISTRESS

If this fair rose offend thy sight,

Placed in thy bosom bare,

"Twill blush to find itself less white

And turn Lancastrian there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

As kiss it thou mayst deign,

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkish turn again.

Anon

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! O weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! O dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies,

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red,
Look up, look up! I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.
I fly - adieu!

Adieu, adieu

-

I vanish in the heaven's blue,

Adieu, adieu!

John Keats

OVER HILL, OVER DALE

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. William Shakespeare

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As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

Oh the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.
William Blake

WILLIE WINKIE

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed? - for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue: - glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Wink e! the wean's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie! - See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
William Miller

SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott

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