THE QUEEN. I. To heroism and holiness How hard it is for man to soar, But how much harder to be less Than what his mistress loves him for! He does with ease what do he must, Or lose her, and there's nought debarred From him who's called to meet her trust. And credit her desired regard. Ah, wasteful woman! she that may On her sweet self set her own price, Knowing he cannot choose but pay; How has she cheapened paradise, How given for nought her priceless gift, How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine, Which, spent with due, respective thrift, Had made brutes men, and men divine. II. O queen! awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give, And comprehend and wear the crown Must yet in this thy praise abate, That through thine erring humble ness And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee. High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, The coward had grasped the hero's sword, The vilest had been great, hadst thou, Just to thyself, been worth's reward: But lofty honors undersold Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favor that makes folly bold Puts out the light in virtue's face. COVENTRY PATMORE. I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. My dear and only love, I pray Like Alexander I will reign, He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. But, if no faithless action stain And love thee more and more. TO LUCASTA. TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, True, a new mistress now I chase, Yet this inconstancy is such I could not love thee, dear, so much, APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE. THEY that never had the use Neither do, nor care to, know, Whether it be best or no. So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, nor choice or art, To the first that's fair or kind, To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand But when the bright sun did appear, He neither might nor wished to know A more refulgent light; For that (as mine your beauties Learn to win a lady's faith Lead her from the festive boards; By your truth she shall be true, OUTGROWN. NAY, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own. Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say; And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and "made up" in play. And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. Five summers ago, when you wood i her, you stood on the selisame plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again. She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May; And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day. Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down; At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, The modest mirth that she doth use O Lord! it is a world to see How might I do to get a graffe THE TRIBUTE. No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome But serves for her familiar wear; The far-fetch'd diamond finds its home Flashing and smouldering in her hair; For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli; The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise? Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, And for my werk right nothing wol I axe; My lord and I ben ful of one accord. I made her to the worship of my Lord. CHAUCER. THE BRIDE. Lo! where she comes along with portly pace, Like Phoebe from her chamber of the east, Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire, Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire; And being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before? So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adorned with Beauty's grace and Virtue's store? Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shining bright, Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded, Her lips like cherries charming men to bite, Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded, Her paps like lilies budded, |