LXXXVI

THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE

is not Beauty I demand,

ITA crystal brow, the moon's despair,

Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :——

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Thán summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds: nay what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows there's nought within;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Syren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never link'd with error find, —

One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose,

My earthly Comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be
That, when my spirit wonn'd above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires: -

Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

T. Carew

S

LXXXVIII

TO DIANEME

WEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can ́ see All hearts your captives; yours yet free : Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty 's gone.

R. Herrick

LXXXIX

Go, lovely Rose!

Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired :

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

E. Waller

XC

TO CELIA

RINK to me only with thine eyes,

DR

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 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!

B. Jonson

XCI

CHERRY-RIPE

HERE is a garden in her face

TH

Where roses and white lilies blow A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
-Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
Anon.

A

XCII

THE POETRY OF DRESS

I

SWEET disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:

A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distractión,