By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Speculum Amantis - Love Poems, from Rare Songbooks and Miscellanies of the - Seventeenth Century
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Speculum Amantis - Love Poems, from Rare Songbooks and Miscellanies of the - Seventeenth Century" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.


  [Greek: to rhodon akmazei baion chronon; ên de parelthê,
  zêtôn heurêseis ou rhodon, alla baton.]


  _The season of the rose is brief, make haste to
    pluck your posies;
   Another day you'll chance to find bare thorns
    where bloomed the roses._





    A. H. BULLEN.


  NOTE.--_Five Hundred Copies only printed, each
   numbered as issued._

  _No._ 133


    Grave moralist, with eyes a-squint,
      And pucker'd mouth, pack hence! away!
    Your heart is hard as any flint:
      Avaunt! Love's feast is spread to-day.

    And you, coy maiden, come not nigh,
      Lest wanton rhyme assail your ears:
    Wait till your chaste zone you untie
      And Hymen put to flight your fears.

    But, ho! all ye whose brisker veins
      Glow with Dan Cupid's genial fire,
    Post hitherwards, 'tis worth your pains,
      And harken to our tuneful quire.


In sending out this little anthology of seventeenth-century
love-verses, I must say a few words by way of explanation or apology.
Some eighteen months ago I published a collection of "Lyrics from
the Song-books of the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo), and recently
I issued a second collection, "More Lyrics from the Song-books of
the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo). Those volumes were addressed to
all classes of readers. They may lie on a drawing-room table without
offence. Philemon may give them to his Amanda on her birthday with the
full assurance that he will run no risk of bringing a blush to the
fair nymph's cheek. I was careful to exclude from those collections
any poems that passed the bounds of conventional propriety. In the
seventeenth century those bounds were not so well defined as in the
present age. John Attey, in 1622, dedicated his "First Book of Airs"
to "The Right Honourable John, Earl of Bridgewater, Viscount Brackley,
and Baron of Ellesmere; and the truly Noble and Virtuous Lady, Frances,
Countess of Bridgewater." Among Attey's songs are the audacious verses,
"My days, my months, my years," which I have given in the present
collection (page 15). A noble and virtuous lady now-a-days would be
justly incensed if she found such a lyric in a song-book of which she
had accepted the dedication; but we may be sure that John Attey's
patroness did not withdraw her favour from the composer, or express
herself shocked at his temerity. Manners have changed, and "My days, my
months, my years" is no longer a song for the drawing-room; but snugly
stowed away with its fellows on a top shelf in the library it can do no

In the present volume I have gathered together from the song-books
the songs that could find no place in the former collections, and I
have included several poems from rare miscellanies of the seventeenth

Although some of the poems here collected will be familiar to
students, I am confident that a considerable portion of the anthology
is unknown. Sir Walter Raleigh is a prominent figure in English
literature. The late Archdeacon Hannah's edition of Raleigh's poems
is a valuable piece of work; and Sir Egerton Brydges, in collecting
what he supposed to be Raleigh's poems, showed commendable industry,
but scant judgment. I therefore count myself fortunate in having
discovered the characteristic poem, "Nature that wash'd her hands in
milk" (page 76), which escaped the researches of previous enquirers.
The last stanza of that poem, "Oh cruel time, which takes in trust,"
with a couple of lines tacked on, was published in Raleigh's _Remains_,
where it is said to have been "found in his bible in the Gatehouse at
Westminster." Every reader has that stanza by heart, but the complete
poem--as given in the Harleian MS.--is printed for the first time.

Aurelian Townsend is a poet about whom I have often felt curiosity. He
was the friend of Carew, and Suckling introduces him into _The Session
of the Poets_. From one of the _Malone MSS._, in the Bodleian Library,
I have recovered the charming verses "To the Lady May;" and I can lay
my hand on other poems of Townsend which have never seen the light.[1]
The poems by Henry Ramsay (page 118), of whom I know nothing, of Bishop
Andrewes (page 121), and of J. Paulin (page 127), are not hackneyed;
and I might refer to many others.

  [1] Some time ago I was at the pains to transcribe from a unique MS.
  a long poem of Thomas Nashe. It is smoothly written, but very gross.
  There must be other poems of Nashe in MS.

The finest of all Cartwright's poems is here--the magnificent "Song
of Dalliance"--beginning, "Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us." It is
ascribed to Cartwright in the unique miscellany (preserved in the
Bodleian), _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656, but is not
printed in his Works. Cartwright had a great reputation among his
contemporaries. "My son, Cartwright," said Ben Jonson, "writes all like
a man." "Cartwright was the utmost man could come to" in the opinion
of that excellent prelate, Bishop Fell. All the wits of the age paid
tributes to his memory. Anthony-à-Wood and Lloyd rush into raptures
about him. After reading the various panegyrics on his poems it is a
sad disappointment to turn to the poems themselves. But if Cartwright
wrote other poems equal to "Hark, my Flora!"--not for publication (for
he was "the most florid and seraphical preacher in the University," and
seraphical preachers should not publish Songs of Dalliance), but to be
circulated in manuscript among his friends--then the esteem in which
his poetical abilities were held would be intelligible.

Among the rare miscellanies from which I have quoted are _Wits
Interpreter_, 1655, 1671; _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650; _The
Marrow of Compliments_, 1655; _Sportive Wit_, 1656; _The Mysteries of
Love and Eloquence_ (edited by Milton's nephew, Edward Phillips), 1658;
_Wit and Drollery_, 1661; _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671; _The
Windsor Drollery_, 1672; and _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674. Many poems
are from MSS. preserved in the Bodleian Library and the British Museum.
The Rev. J. W. Ebsworth, with his usual kindness, has helped me when
my knowledge or memory has been at fault. No man has so intimate a
knowledge as Mr. Ebsworth of the floating literature of the second half
of the seventeenth century.

Though not a few of the poems in the present volume could not be
included in anthologies intended for general circulation, I must yet
be allowed to state that I have reprinted nothing that is offensively
gross. There is a great deal of dirt--nasty worthless trash--in the
miscellanies of the Restoration, and with this garbage I have not
chosen to meddle.

  _August, 1888_.



  After long service and a thousand vows (_Bristol Drollery_) 19

  As Chloe o'er the meadow past (_Sir Charles Sedley_)       122

  As I traversed to and fro (_Academy of Compliments_)        36

  As youthful day put on his best (_Westminster Drollery_)    63

  Away, away! call back what you have said (_Corkine_)        88

  Be thou joyful, I am jolly (_Windsor Drollery_)             87

  Beauty, since you so much desire (_Campion_)                 6

  Black eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie (_Howell_)           32

  Chloris, forbear awhile (_Sportive Wit_)                    93

  Chloris, when I to thee present (_Westminster Drollery_)    41

  Chloris saw me sigh and tremble (_Vinculum Societatis_)      7

  Come, be my Valentine (_Bishop Andrewes_)                  121

  Come, my Clarinda, we'll consume (_Paulin_)                128

  Come, Phillis, let's to yonder grove (_Bristol Drollery_)    7

  Constant wives are comforts to men's lives (_Add. MS. 22601_)3

  Cupid is an idle toy (_Folly in Print_)                      4

  Cupid, thou art a sluggish boy (_Mysteries of Love and
    Eloquence_)                                               42

  Dear Castadorus, let me rise (_Jordan_)                     53

  Dear, I must do (_Folly in Print_)                          25

  Do not ask me, charming Phillis (_New Academy of
    Compliments_)                                             43

  Do not rack my bleeding heart (_Ramsay_)                   118

  Down in a garden sat my dearest love (_Wit's Interpreter_)   9

  Dunces in love, how long shall we (_Rawlinson MS.,
    Poet. 117_)                                               10

  Fair Chloris in a gentle slumber lay (_Songs and Poems of
    Love and Drollery_)                                       94

  Fairest, if you roses seek (_Bristol Drollery_)             72

  Fairest thing that shines below (_New Academy of
    Compliments_)                                            109

  Gaze not on thy beauty's pride (_Carew_)                    84

  Go and count her better hours (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 206_)   67

  Go, fickle man, and teach the moon to range (_Hammond_)    124

  Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us (_Cartwright_)            10

  He or she that hopes to gain (_Harl. MS. 6918_)            120

  He that hath no mistress must not wear a favour (_Corkine_) 44

  He that intends to woo a maid (_Academy of Compliments_)    14

  Her dainty palm I gently prest (_Marrow of Compliments_)    45

  I dream'd we both were in a bed (_Herrick_)                 40

  I have followed thee a year at least (_New Academy of
    Compliments_)                                            107

  I pray thee, sweet John, away (_Greaves_)                   46

  I swear by muscadel (_Duke of Newcastle_)                   47

  I walk'd abroad not long ago (_Wither_)                    101

  I will not do a sacrifice (_Wit Restored_)                  67

  If any hath the heart to kill (_Campion_)                   99

  If my lady bid begin (_Academy of Compliments_)              1

  If shadows be the picture's excellence (_Rawlinson MS.
    Poet. 199_)                                               30

  In summer time when birds do sing (_Harl. MS. 7322_)        79

  In summer time when grass was mown (_Harl. MS. 791_)        82

  Know, falsest man, as my love was (_Hammond_)              125

  Know, Sylvia, that your curious twist (_Songs and Poems
    of Love and Drollery_)                                   106

  Ladies, whose marble hearts despise (_Munsey_)              78

  Ladies, you that seem so nice (_Henry Lawes' Airs
    and Dialogues_)                                           98

  Lady, on your eyes I gazed (_Wit's Recreations_)           115

  Let common beauties have the power (_Harl. MS. 6917_)        2

  Like to the wealthy island thou shalt lie (_New Academy
    of Compliments_)                                          13

  Lose no time nor youth, but be (_Mysteries of Love and
    Eloquence_)                                               73

  Love in rambling once astray (_Wit at a Venture_)           68

  Maids they are grown so coy of late (_Marrow of
    Compliments_)                                             97

  Methought the other night (_Jones_)                         34

  My days, my months, my years (_Attey_)                      15

  My love hath vowed he will forsake me (_Campion_)           95

  My love in her attire doth show her wit (_Davison's
    Poetical Rhapsody_)                                       12

  My mistress sings no other song (_Jones_)                   16

  Naked love did to thine eye (_Sherburne_)                  113

  Nature, that wash'd her hands in milk (_Sir Walter
    Rawleigh_)                                                76

  Nay pish! nay phew! nay faith and will you? fie!
   (_Sportive Wit_)                                           49

  Nay, Silvia, now you're cruel grown (_Rawlinson MS.
    Poet. 94_)                                                21

  No, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain (_Songs and Poems of
    Love and Drollery_)                                       39

  O how oftentimes have I (_Harl. MS. 7332_)                 111

  Once I must confess I loved (_Wit Restored_)                83

  Once and no more: so said my life (_Wit's Interpreter_)     29

  Phillis, for shame, let us improve (_Westminster
    Drollery_)                                               105

  Pish, modest sipper, to't again (_New Academy of
    Compliments_)                                             69

  Poor Celia once was very fair (_Flatman_)                   90

  Pretty nymph, why always blushing (_Wit's Cabinet_)        110

  Shall we die (_Westminster Drollery_)                       74

  Sighs, blow out those flames in me (_Rawlinson MS.
    Poet. 199_)                                              119

  Silvia, now your scorn give over (_Vinculum Societatis_)    96

  Sleepy, my dear? Yes, yes, I see (_Wit's Interpreter_)      17

  Sol shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright
    (_Bristol Drollery_)                                      18

  Some men desire spouses (_Weelkes_)                        104

  Still to affect, still to admire (_Harl. MS. 6917_)          3

  Sweet, exclude me not, nor be divided (_Campion_)           52

  Sweet Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well
     (_New Academy of Compliments_)                           48

  Sweet Philomel, in groves and desarts haunting (_Jones_)    62

  Take Time, my dear, ere Time takes wing (_Melpomene_)      102

  There is not half so warm a fire (_Choice Drollery_)        71

  Thine's fair, facetious, all that can (_Wit's Interpreter_) 28

  Though that no god may thee deserve (_Marrow of
    Compliments_)                                             60

  'Tis not, dear Love, that amber twist (_Wit Restored_)     113

  'Tis not how witty nor how free (_Wit's Interpreter_)       61

  'Tis true your beauty, which before (_Wit's Recreations_)   86

  To bed ye two in one united go (_Baron_)                   117

  To her whose beauty doth excel (_Wits Interpreter_)         75

  Two lovers sat lamenting (_Corkine_)                        91

  Under the willow-shades they were (_Davenant_)              89

  Underneath this myrtle shade (_Windsor Drollery_)           26

  What though Flora frowns on me (_Tixall Poetry_)           108

  When doth Love set forth desire? (_Academy of
    Compliments_)                                            100

  When first Amyntas sued for a kiss (_D'Urfey_)             103

  When I do love I wish to taste the fruit (_Harl. MS. 6917_)  5

  When Phoebus first did Daphne love (_John Dowland_)         55

  Why is your faithful slave disdain'd (_Banquet of Music_)   59

  Why, Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she. (_Oxford
    Drollery_)                                                23

  Why should passion lead thee blind (_Harl. MS. 791_)        56

  Would you be a man of fashion (_Tixall Poetry_)            116

  Would you know earth's highest pleasure (_Tixall Poetry_)  116

  Yes, I could love if I could find (_Malone MS. 16_)         57

  You nimble dreams with cobweb wings (_Sloane MS. 1792_)     51

  You that in the midst of night (_Ashmole MS. 38_)           58

  Your smiles are not as other women's be (_Townsend_)       126


From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

    IF[2] my lady bid begin,
    Shall I say "No: 'tis a sin"?
    If she bid me kiss and play,
    Shall I shrink, cold fool, away?
    If she clap my cheeks and spy
    Little Cupids in my eye,
    Gripe my hand and stroke my hair,
    Shall I like a faint heart fear?
    No, no, no: let those that lie
    In dismal prison, and would die,
    Despair and fear; let those that cry
    They are forsaken and would fly,
    Quit their fortunes; mine are free:
    Hope makes me hardy, so does she.

  [2] Also found in Dr. John Wilson's _Cheerful Airs_, 1660, and other

From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 38.

    LET common beauties have the power
    To make one love-sick for an hour,
      Perhaps for one whole day or two;
    But so to captivate a heart
    As it should never, never part,
          None hath that art
          But only you.

    Let meaner beauties have the skill,
    By tempering hopes with fears, to kill
      And by degrees a heart undo;
    But with a sweet, yet tyrant, eye
    At once to bid one look and die,
          None hath that power
          But only you.

    Fair wonder, to those charming eyes
    A heart I fain would sacrifice,
      Had I but e'er a one in store;
    But having lost mine long before,
    Well may I sigh, wish, and adore,
          But for my life
          Can die no more.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917.


    STILL to affect, still to admire,
    Yet never satisfy desire
    With touch of hand, or lip, or that
    Which pleaseth best (I name not what),--
    Like Tantalus I pining die,
    Taking Love's dainties at the eye.

    Nature made nothing but for use,
    And, fairest, 'twere a gross abuse
    To her best work if you it hold
    Unused, like misers' ill-got gold,
    Or keep it in a virgin scorn,
    Like rich robes that are seldom worn.

From _Add. MS._ 22601.

    CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives,
      Drawing a happy yoke without debate;
    A playfellow that far off all grief drives;
      A steward, early that provides and late:
    Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty,
    Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.

From _Folly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes_, 1667.


    CUPID[3] is an idle toy,
    Never was there such a boy:
    If there were, let any show
    Or his quiver or his bow,
    Or the wound by him he got
    By a broken arrow shot.
    _Money, Money, Money_ makes men bow;
    That's the only Cupid now.
    Whilst the world continued good,
    And men loved for flesh and blood,
    Men about them wore a dart
    Which did win a woman's heart;
    And the women, great and small,
    With a certain thing they call
    _Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me_, caught the men:
    This was th' only Cupid then.

  [3] These verses are printed (with some slight alterations) in _Wit's
  Interpreter_, 1655. For "_Kiss Me_" (l. 15) _Wit's Interpreter_ gives a
  word to rhyme with "_Money_" (l. 7).

From _Harl. MS._ 6917, fol. 87.

    WHEN[4] I do love I wish to taste the fruit,
      And to attain to what my hopes aspire;
    Refusal's better than a lingering suit,
      Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:
    And in most desperate case doth he remain
    That's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.

    Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;
      Hope promises, enjoying is content;
    Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;
      Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:
    Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,
    But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.

  [4] "There was probably a close connection here with the Song on
  Love, beginning, 'When I do love, I would not wish to speed,'
  printed in _Parnassus Biceps_, 1656, p. 82, and reprinted by
  Robert Jamieson, in _Popular Ballads_, ii. 311."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1617).

    BEAUTY,[5] since you so much desire
    To know the place of Cupid's fire,
    About you somewhere doth it rest,
    Yet never harbour'd in your breast,
    Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:
    What fool would seek love's flame so low?
    But a little higher, but a little higher,
    There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.

    Think not when Cupid most you scorn
    Men judge that you of ice were born;
    For, though you cast love at your heel,
    His fury yet sometime you feel:
    And whereabouts if you would know,
    I tell you still not in your toe:
    But a little higher, but a little higher,
    There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.

  [5] This jocular song must have been written long before the date of
  publication, for a quotation from it occurs in _Eastward Ho_, 1605.
  (In Campion and Rosseter's _Book of Airs_, 1601, there is a song
  beginning, "Mistress, since you so much desire"; but Gertrude, in
  _Eastward Ho_, iii. 2--"But a little higher," &c.--was evidently
  quoting from the present song).

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

    COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,
    That I may tell thee how I love;
    And how I've suffer'd every day
    Since thou hast stol'n my heart away;
    How many nights I've lain awake
    And sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.
    This, Phillis, this shall be our talk
    Whilst hand in hand we gently walk;
    Then down we'll sit in yonder shade
    A myrtle has for lovers made;
    And when I've called thee duck and dear,
    And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,
    If love, or pity on thy swain,
    Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,
    Then like two billing turtles we
    Will do what none but Love shall see.

From _Vinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company_, 1687.

    CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,
      And then ask'd why I did so;
    Love like mine can ill dissemble:--
      Chloris 'tis for love of you,
    For those pretty tempting graces
      Of your smiling lips and eyes,
    For those pressing close embraces
      When your snowy breasts do rise;

    For those joys of which the trial
      Only can instruct your heart
    What you lose by your denial,
      When Love draws his pleasing dart;
    For those kisses in perfection
      Which a wanton soul like mine,
    Form'd by Cupid's own direction,
      Could infuse too into thine;

    For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,
      And a thousand charming things,
    For which monarchs might implore you
      To beget a race of kings;
    And for which I fain would whisper,
      But my heart is still afraid,--
    Yet 'tis that young ladies wish for
      Every night they go to bed.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

    DOWN[6] in a garden sat my dearest love,
    Her skin more soft than down of swan,
    More tender-hearted than the turtle dove
    And far more kind than bleeding pelican.
    I courted her; she rose and blushing said,
    "Why was I born to live and die a maid?"
    With that I plucked a pretty marigold,
    Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:
    "Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,
    A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:
    These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,
    Yet will they open when they see the sun."
    "What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;
    "I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:
    "Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"
    With that she changed her colour and grew wan.
    "Since that this riddle you so well unfold,
    Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."

  [6] In the 1671 edition of _Wit's Interpreter_ this poem is headed
  "Love's Riddle Resolved." It is found in several miscellanies of the

  ["Amplified and spun out, it became a ballad printed for the assigns
  of Thomas Symcocke, in _Roxburghe Collection_, l. 242, a probably
  unique exemplar, entitled 'The Maid's Comfort.'"--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

_Rawlinson Poetry MS._, 117, fol. 144.

    DUNCES in love, how long shall we
    Be poring on our A. B. C.?
    For such are kisses, which torment
    Rather than give my self-content;
    Letters from which you scarce will prove
    The wisest scholars can spell love.
    What though the lily of your hand
    Or coral lip I may command?
    It is but like him up to th' chin
    Whose mouth can touch but take not in.

From _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656.

    HARK,[7] my Flora! Love doth call us
    To that strife that must befall us.
    He has robb'd his mother's myrtles
    And hath pull'd her downy turtles.
    See, our genial posts are crown'd,
    And our beds like billows rise;
    Softer[8] combat's nowhere found,
    And who loses wins the prize.

    Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;
    Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.
    Fear not any can surprise us,
    Love himself doth now disguise us.
    From thy waist the girdle throw:
    Night and darkness both dwell here:
    Words or actions who can know,
    Where there's neither eye nor ear?

    Shew thy bosom and then hide it;
    License touching and then chide it;
    Give a grant and then forbear it,
    Offer something and forswear it;
    Ask where all our shame is gone;
    Call us wicked wanton men;
    Do as turtles, kiss and groan;
    Say[9] "We ne'er shall meet again."

    I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;
    Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;
    Easy riches is no treasure;
    She that's willing spoils the pleasure.
    Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10] fight;
    Pull and struggle whilst[11] ye twine;
    Let me use my force to-night,
    The next conquest shall be thine.

  [7] The poem is headed "Cartwright's Song of Dalliance. Never printed
  before." It was printed in the same year, without the author's name,
  in _Parnassus Biceps_, where it is headed, "Love's Courtship."
  Unquestionably the finest of Cartwright's poems.

  [8] _Parnassus Biceps_ reads,--

      "Softer lists are nowhere found,
      And the strife itself's the prize."

  [9] _Parnassus Biceps_,--

      "Say thou ne'er shalt joy again."

  [10] This is the reading in _Parnassus Biceps_--_Sportive Wit_,

  [11] _Parnassus Biceps_, "when we twine."

From DAVISON'S _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602.


    MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,
      It doth so well become her:
    For every season she hath dressings fit,
      For winter, spring, and summer.
          No beauty she doth miss
            When all her robes are on;
          But Beauty's self she is
            When all her robes are gone.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,
    And like the sea about it I;
    Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,
    Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;
    Like the kind Ocean I will be,
    With loving arms for ever clasping thee;
    But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than so
    As their fresh banks soft rivers do;
    Nor shall the proudest planet boast a power
    Of making my full love to ebb an hour:
    It never dry or low can prove
    Whilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.
    Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bear
    As if like doves w' engender'd there;
    No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,
    In love there's none too much an epicure.
    Nought shall my hands or lips control;
    I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.
    Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,
    Night that's both blind and silent too.
    Alpheus found not a more secret trace
    His loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,
    Creeping so far beneath the sea,
    Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.
    Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,
    The pleasant thefts of love do hide.
    That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from me
    A more infallible security;
    For there's no danger I should tell
    The joys which are to me unspeakable.

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

    HE that intends to woo a maid
    With youthful heat, must shun the shade.
    When Flora's gardens are i' th' prime
    Let him and her pluck _May_ and _Time_:[12]
    There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,
    Let them two both kiss and fling,
    Till summer's fairest carpet spread
    Yields them a green and pleasant bed:
    If lovers there would strive together,
    Chastity would not weigh one feather.

  [12] Compare Morley's song, "Thyrsis and Milla," in _More Lyrics_,
  pp. 116-7.

From JOHN ATTEY'S _First Book of Airs_, 1622.

    MY days, my months, my years
      I spend about a moment's gain,
    A joy that in th' enjoying ends,
      A fury quickly slain;

    A frail delight, like that wasp's life
      Which now both frisks and flies,
    And in a moment's wanton strife
      It faints, it pants, it dies.

    And when I charge, my lance in rest,
      I triumph in delight,
    And when I have the ring transpierced
      I languish in despite;

    Or like one in a lukewarm bath,
      Light-wounded in a vein,
    Spurts out the spirits of his life
      And fainteth without pain.

From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.

    MY mistress sings no other song,
    But still complains I did her wrong;
    Believe her not, it was not so,
    I did but kiss her and let her go.

    And now she swears I did,--but what?
    Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.
    And yet I will, it is so sweet
    As teehee tahha when lovers meet.

    But women's words they are heedless,
    To tell you more it is needless;
    I ran and caught her by the arm,
    And then I kissed her,--this was no harm.

    But she, alas! is angry still,
    Which sheweth but a woman's will:
    She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"
    And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.

    Yet sure her looks bewrays content,
    And cunningly her brawls[13] are meant,
    As lovers use to play and sport
    When time and leisure is too-too short.

  [13] Old ed. "brales."

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.


    SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I see
    Morpheus is fallen in love with thee;
    Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries
    To draw the curtains of thine eyes,
    And fans them with his wing asleep;
    Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.
    How prettily his feathers blow
    Those fleshy shuttings to and fro!
    O how he makes me Tantalise
    With those fair apples of thine eyes!
    Equivocates and cheats me still,
    Opening and shutting at his will,
    Now both, now one! the doting god
    Plays with thine eyes at even or odd.
    My stammering tongue doubts which it might
    Bid thee, good-morrow or good-night.
    So thy eyes twinkle brighter far
    Than the bright trembling evening star;
    So a wax taper, burnt within
    The socket, plays at out and in.
        Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,
    Meaning there all night to lie:
    Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!
    The eye, their bed and coverlid.
        Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;
    Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.
    Make me thy maiden chamber-man,
    Or let me be thy warming-pan.
    O that I might but lay my head
    At thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

    SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,
    As my dear Julia did the other night.
    Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to see
    What gave the world a greater light than she;
    But angry soon she disappear'd and fled
    Into her inner rooms, and so to bed.
    I envied not Endymion's joys that night:
    Far greater had I with her lustre-light.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

    AFTER long service and a thousand vows,
    To her glad lover she more kindness shows.
    Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'd
    When the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;
    And many a time had given her a green gown,
    And oft he kissed her when he had her down;
    With sighs and motions he to her made known
    What fain he would have done: then with a frown
    She would forbid him, till the minute came
    That she no longer could conceal her flame.
    The am'rous shepherd, forward to espy
    Love's yielding motions triumph in her eye,
    With eager transport straight himself addrest
    To taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:
    When with resistance, and a seeming flight,
    As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,
    Unto a place where flowers thicker grew
    Out of his arms as swift as air she flew:
    Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as she
    When from the god[14] she fled and turn'd t' a tree.
    The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,
    Since she intended to be overta'en.
    He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ball
    To stay her flight, for she herself did fall,
    Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she lay
    To gain more breath that she might lose't in play.
    She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threw
    When he addressed to crop a flower too.
    Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;
    She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.
    At length o'ercome she suffers with a sigh
    Her ravish'd lover use his victory,
    And gave him leave to punish her delay
    With double vigour in the am'rous play;
    But then, alas! soon ended the delight;
    For too much love had hastened[15] its flight,
    And _every_ ravish'd sense too soon awake,
    Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:
    Which left the lovers in a state to prove
    Long were the pains but short the joys of love.

  [14] Old ed. "Gods."

  [15] Old ed. "had had hastn'ed."

From _MS. Rawlinson Poet._ 94. fol. 192.


    NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;
    I'll swear you most unjustly frown.
    I only asked (in vain) to taste
    What you denied with mighty haste;
    I asked--but I'm ashamed to tell
    What 'twas you took so wondrous ill--
    A kiss. But with a coy disdain
    You view'd my sighings and my pain;
    'Twas but a civil small request,
    Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,
    You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"
    Put case[17] that I had loosed your gown,
    And then by force had laid you down,
    And with unruly hands had teased you,--
    Too justly then I had displeased you.
    Or had I (big with wanton joys)
    Engaged you for a brace of boys,
    Then basely left you full of nature,--
    This would have been provoking matter.
    But I, poor harmless civil I,
    Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,
    And saw denial in your eye;
    For with a squeamish glance you cried
    "I hate the nauseous bliss."
    "'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,
    For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."

  [16] There are some verses in Thomas Flatman's _Songs and Poems_,
  1674, which suggested, or were suggested by, the present poem. They
  run thus:--


      I did but crave that I might kiss,
        If not her lip, at least her hand,
      The coolest lover's frequent bliss;
        And rude is she that will withstand
        That inoffensive liberty:
      She (would you think it?) in a fume
      Turn'd her about and left the room:
        "Not she!" she vowed, "not she!"

      "Well, Charissa," then said I,
        "If it must thus for ever be,
      I can renounce my slavery
        And, since you will not, can be free."
        Many a time she made me die,
      Yet (would you think it?) I loved the more:
      But I'll not take 't as heretofore,
        Not I, I'll vow, not I.

  "The Resolution" is far the better poem.

  [17] Quite in Mr. Browning's vein this expression, "Put case that."

From CAPTAIN WM. HICKS' _Oxford Drollery_, 1671.


    WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,
                      Your will, sir?
    I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,
                      Do so still, sir.
    I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?
                      But what, sir?
    Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?
                      Let me ha't, sir.
    I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?
                      But where, sir?
    To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?
                      Why there, sir?
    I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?
                      But when, sir?
    Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,
                      Nor then, sir.
    I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?
                      How much, sir?
    Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;
                      Not a touch, sir.
    I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?
                      But why, sir?
    'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?
                      'Tis a lie, sir.
    I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?
                      Are you sure on't?
    'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?
                      There's no cure on't.
    Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,
                      My true Love.
    I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,
                      To a new love.

  [18] _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672, has a similar copy of verses:--

      I'd have you, quoth he?
      Would you have me? quoth she;
              O where, sir?

      In my chamber, quoth he.
      In your chamber? quoth she;
              Why there, sir?

      To kiss you, quoth he.
      To kiss me? quoth she;
              O why, sir?

      'Cause I love it, quoth he.
      Do you love it? quoth she;
              So do I, sir.

  Compare another copy of verses, "O Amis! quoth he. Well, Thomas! quoth
  she," in the _Academy of Compliments_, 1671, p. 270.

From _Folly in Print_, 1667.



    DEAR, I must do.
    _Phillis._ O I dare not.
    _Strephon._ 'Twill not hurt you.
    _Phillis._ No, I care not.
    _Strephon._ Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.
    _Phillis._ Will you marry?
    _Strephon._ Yes, to-morrow.
    _Phillis._ Till then tarry.
    _Strephon._ I would borrow.
    _Phillis._ Fruit is best when gathered in season.

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

(_After Anacreon._)[19]

    UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
    On flowery beds supinely laid,
    With odorous oils my head o'erflowing
    And around it roses growing,
    What should I do but drink away
    The heat and troubles of the day?
    In this more than kingly state,
    Love himself shall on me wait:
    Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,
    And mingled cast into the cup
    Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
    Vigorous health, and gay desires.
    The wheel of life no less will stay
    In a smooth than rugged way;
    Since it equally doth flee,
    Let the motion pleasant be.
    Why do we precious ointments shower,
    Nobler wines why do we pour,
    Beauteous flowers why do we spread
    Upon the monuments of the dead?
    Nothing they but dust can show
    Or bones that hasten to be so.
    Crown me with roses while I live,
    Now your wines and ointments give:
    After death I nothing crave,
    Let me alive my pleasures have:
    All are stoics in the grave.

  [19] A delightful rendering of the fourth ode of Anacreon. I have
  found a MS. copy of it in _Rawlinson MS. Poet._, 214, where it is
  ascribed (how truly I know not) to "Mr. Tho. Head." It occurs in
  several later miscellanies; and in the variorum translation of
  Anacreon published at Oxford in 1683. Here is Stanley's rendering
  of the same ode: it is good, but far inferior to the version in the

      On this verdant lotus laid,
      Underneath the myrtle's shade,
      Let us drink our sorrows dead,
      While Love plays the Ganymed.
      Life like to a wheel runs round,
      And, ere long, we underground
      (Ta'en by Death asunder) must
      Moulder in forgotten Dust.
      Why then graves should we bedew,
      Why the ground with odours strew?
      Better whilst alive prepare
      Flowers and unguents for our hair.
        Come, my fair one, come away;
      All our cares behind us lay;
      That these pleasures we may know
      Ere we come to those below.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.


    THINE'S fair, facetious,[20] all that can
    Delight the airy part of man:
    My love is black, thou sayst, her eye
    Hath something of severity.
    Therefore I love: her spring will last
    When all thy flowers are dead and blast
    She's wisely framed, with art is made;
    Your best night-pieces have most shade.
    And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mine
    Yields not as great a warmth as thine?
    Her heat is inward, and she may
    More pleasant be another way:
    They're slow to yield, but, when they do,
    You have both soul and body too.
    The quicker eye and nimble tongue
    Leaves footsteps for suspicion;
    But in her looks and language lies
    A very charm for Argus' eyes.
    Now pray then tell me, and withal
    Pray be not too-too partial,
    Doth not one feature[21] now in mine
    Appear more lovely than all thine?
    No airy objects will me[22] move,
    It is the sober black I love:
    I love't so well that I protest
    I love the blackest parts the best.

  [20] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "factious."

  [21] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "fortune."

  [22] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "we."

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.


    ONCE and no more: so said my life,
    When in my arms inchained
    She unto mine her lips did move,
    And so my heart she gained.
    Thus done, she saith, "Away I must
    For fear of being missed;
    Your heart's made over but in trust;"
    And so again she kissed.

From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 199.


    IF shadows be the picture's excellence
    And make it seem more lively to the sense;
    If stars in the bright day do lose their light
    And shine more glorious in the masque of night,
    Why should you think, fair creature, that you lack
    Perfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?
    Or that your beauty that so far exceeds
    The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,
    That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,
    Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?
    Or is it fit that nature should have made
    So bright a sun to shine without a shade?
    It seems that nature, when she first did fancy
    Your rare composure, studied necromancy;
    And when to you those gifts she did impart,
    She studied altogether the black art.
    She drew the magic circle of your eyes,
    And made the chain where, in your hair, she ties
    Rebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,
    Twining Meander-like to either sphere,
    Mysterious figures are; and when you list,
    Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.
    O if in magic you have skill so far,
    Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!
    Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'd
    On outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.
    As by the spring-head we may often know
    The nature of the streams that run below,
    So your black hair and eyes do give direction
    To make me think the rest of like perfection,--
    The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,
    That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,
    That world-dividing gulf where whoso venters
    With swelling sails and ravish'd senses enters
    Into a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,
    If my rude muse doth seem here to display
    Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast
    In praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.
    Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,
    Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.
    A rover in the mark his arrows sticks
    Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.
      And if I could direct my shaft aright,
      The black mark would I hit and miss the white.

From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.


_To Lucina._

    BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie
    My ill or happy destiny.
    If with clear looks you me behold,
    You give me treasures full of gold;
    If you dart forth disdainful rays,
    To your own dye you turn my days.
    That lamp which all the stars doth blind
    To modest Cynthia is less kind,
    Though you do wear, to make you bright,
    No other dress than that of night.
    He glitters only in the day;
    You in the dark your beams display.
    The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,
    At some dark corner watching lies;
    So that heart-robbing God doth stand
    In those black gems, with shaft in hand,
    To rifle me of what I hold
    More precious far than Indian gold.
    Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,
    Who in your circles strictly pries
    Will find that Cupid with his dart
    In you doth practise the black art;
    And by those spells I am possest,
    Tries his conclusions in my breast.
    Though from those objects frowns arise,
    Some kind of frowns become black eyes,
    As pointed diamonds being set
    Cast greater lustre out of jet.
    Those pieces we esteem most rare,
    Which in night-shadows postured are.
    Darkness in churches congregates the sight;
    Devotion strays in open daring light.

  [23] "This poem was written by James Howell. It is printed among his
  Poems, 1664, p. 68. Also in Poems collected by P. F. [= P. Fisher],
  1663. See my Note in _Choyce Drollery_, reprint, 1876, p. 298."--_J.
  W. Ebsworth._

From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.

    METHOUGHT[24] the other night
    I saw a pretty sight
      That pleased me much;
    A fair and comely maid,
    Not squeamish nor afraid
      To let me touch,
    Our lips most sweetly kissing,
    Each other never missing;
    Her smiling looks did show content
    And that she did but what she meant.

    And as her lips did move
    The echo still was love,
      "Love, love me, sweet!"
    Then with a maiden blush,
    Instead of crying "Push!"[25]
      Our lips did meet:
    With music sweetly sounding,
    With pleasures all abounding,
    We kept the burthen of the song,
    Which was that love should take no wrong.

    And yet, as maidens use,
    She seemed to refuse
      The name of love,
    Until I did protest
    That I did love her best,
      And so will prove:
    With that, as both amazed,
    Each at the other gazed,
    My eyes did see, my hands did feel,
    Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.

    O when I felt her breast
    Where love did rest,
      My love was such
    I could have been content
    My best blood to have spent
      In that sweet touch:
    But now comes that which vext us,
    There was a bar betwixt us,
    A bar that barred me from that part
    Where nature did contend with art.

    If ever love had power
    To send one happy hour,
      Then show thy might,
    And take such bars away
    Which are the only stay
      Of love's delight.
    All this was but a dreaming,
    Although another meaning.
    Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;
    I will love you, you may love me.

  [24] Old ed. "My thought." The first two stanzas of this poem (which
  becomes somewhat enigmatical towards the end) are also found in _The
  Westminster Drollery_.

  [25] Old ed. "pish;" but "push" (required for the rhyme), the reading
  in _The Westminster Drollery_, is an old form of "pish."

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

    AS I traversed to and fro,
    And in the fields was walking,
    I chanced to hear two sisters
    That secretly were talking.
    The younger to the elder said,
    Prithee why do'st not marry?
    In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to thee
    I mean not long to tarry.
    When I was fifteen years of age
    Then I had suitors many,
    But I, a wanton peevish wench,
    Would not sport with any;
    Till at the last, I sleeping fast,
    Cupid came to woo me,
    And like a lad that was stark mad
    He swore he would come to me.
    And then he lay down by my side
    And spread his arms upon me,
    And I being 'twixt sleep and wake
    Did strive to thrust him from me,
    But he with all the power he had
    Did lie the harder on me.
    And then he did so play with me
    As I was play'd with never;
    The wanton boy so pleased me,
    I would have slept for ever.
    And then methought the world turn'd round
    And Phoebus fell a-skipping,
    And all the nymphs and goddesses
    About us two were tripping.
    Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'd
    His Ocean streams upon us,
    But Boreas with his blust'ring blasts
    Did strive to keep him from us.
    Limping Vulcan he came
    As if he had been jealous,
    Venus follow'd after him
    And swore she'd blow the bellows.
    Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,
    And swore he would him smother:
    Quoth Cupid, Said I so to thee
    When thou lay'st with my mother?
    Juno, then, and Jupiter
    Came marching with Apollo;
    Pan came in with Mercury,
    And then began the hollo;
    Cupid ran and hid himself,
    And so of joys bereft me:
    For suddenly I did awake,
    And all these fancies left me.

From _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_. By T. W.[26] 1654.


    NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,
    Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,
    Shall make my sadder verse complain
    Or my well kindled fame abate:
    Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,
    But one resolved like mine can make them start.

    Contract thy brow, and let thine eye
    Dart thunderbolts of anger still;
    Storm me with all th' artillery,
    With which Love's rebels use to kill:
    I'll not retreat till I or conqueror be
    Or martyr of thy cruelty and thee.

    Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not till
    Thy magazine of anger's spent:
    If I survive and love thee still,
    I know thou then must needs relent:
    Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercome
    A tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.

    But if I fall unto[27] thy hate
    And stubborn scorn a sacrifice,
    I shall be happy in that fate
    Whilst with me all my torment dies:
    Thus shall my constancy for thy disdain
    Either begin my bliss or end my pain.

  [26] _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 211, contains very many, if not all, of
  the poems in this collection. On the fly-leaf of the MS. is a note,
  "Charles Williams his booke written with Thomas."

  [27] Old ed. "into."

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    I[28] DREAM'D we both were in a bed
    Of roses almost smothered;
    But when I heard thy sweet breath say
    "Faults done by night will blush by day,"
    I kiss'd thee panting, and I call
    The night to record that was all.
    But ah, if empty dreams so please,
    Love give me more such nights as these.

  [28] These dainty verses are by Robert Herrick.

From _The Westminster Drollery_, 1671.

    CHLORIS, when I to thee present
    The cause of all my discontent;
    And show that all the wealth that can
    Flow from this little world of man
    Is nought but constancy and love,
    Why will you other objects prove?

    O do not cozen your desires
    With common and mechanic fires:
    That picture which you see in gold
    In every shop is to be sold:
    And diamonds of richest price
    Men only value with their eyes.

    But look upon my loyal heart
    That knows to value every part,
    And loves thy hidden virtue more
    Than outward shape, which fools adore:
    In that you'll all the treasures find
    That can content a noble mind.

From _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_, 1658.


    CUPID, thou art a sluggish boy
      And dost neglect thy calling;
    Thy bow and arrows are a toy;
      Thy monarchy is falling.

    Unless thou dost recall thy self
      And take thy tools about thee,
    Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,
      And all the world will flout thee.

    Rouse up thy spirit like a god,
      And play the archer finely,
    Let none escape thy shaft or rod
      'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:
    So mayst thou chance to plague that heart
    That cruelly hath made me smart.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    DO[29] not ask me, charming Phillis,
      Why I lead you here alone
    By this bank of pinks and lilies
      And of roses newly blown.

    'Tis not to behold the beauty
      Of those flowers that crown the spring,
    'Tis to--but I know my duty
      And dare never name the thing.

    'Tis at worst but her denying:
      Why should I thus fearful be?
    Every minute, gently flying,
      Smiles and says "Make use of me."

    What the sun does to those roses
      While the beams play sweetly in,
    I would--but my fear opposes
      And I dare not name the thing.

    Yet I die if I conceal it:
      Ask my eyes, or ask your own,
    And if neither dare reveal it,
      Think what lovers think alone.

    On this bank of pinks and lilies,
      Might I speak what I would do,
    I would--with my lovely Phillis--
      I would--I would--ah, would you?

  [29] These verses are found in many later Miscellanies. [It was
  variously entitled "The Fearful Lover," "Pinks and Lilies; or, Phillis
  at a Non-plus." An answer to it begins, "Forbid me not t'enquire, Why
  you meet me here alone."--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Airs_, 1610.

    HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,
    He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;
    He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,
    And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:
    And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:
    False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!

From _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655.

    HER dainty palm I gently prest
    And with her lip I play'd;
    My cheek upon her panting breast
    And on her neck I laid:
    And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,
    Nor did we then mistrust.

    With pleasant toil we breathless grew,
    And kiss'd in warmer blood;
    Upon her lips the honey-dew
    Like drops on roses' stood:
    And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,
    Whose sweets were such to me.

    But kissing and embracing we
    So long together lay,
    Her touches all inflamed me
    And I began to stray;
    My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,
    My tongue unwisely told.

From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs_, 1604.

    "I PRAY thee, sweet John, away!
    I cannot tell how to love thee!"
    "Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me."
    "O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:
    If this will not move thee, gentle John,
    Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.
                      (Down a down!)

    "Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,
    This fooling I cannot abide;
    Leave off! or in faith I must chide.
    See now, faith, here are proper deeds:
    Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,
    Repentance follows with an after-clap.
    Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,
    And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."
                      (Down a down!)

From DR. JOHN WILSON'S _Cheerful Airs or Ballads_, 1660.

      I SWEAR[30] by muscadel
      That I do love thee well
      And more than I can tell;
    By the white claret and sack
    I do love thy Black, black, black.

      So lovely and so fair,
      O'ershadowed with thy hair,
      So nimble just like air:
    All these set me on love's wrack
    For thy sweeter Black, black, black.

      No goddess 'mongst them all
      So slender and so tall,
      And graceful too withal:
    Which makes my sinews to crack
    For thy dainty Black, black, black.

      Thy kind and loving eye,
      When first I did espy,
      Our loves it did descry,
    Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"
    Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."

  [30] "This was written by Willm. Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and
  sung in his 'Variety' (printed 1649), at the Black Friars
  Theatre."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,
    But I'm afraid
    Thou'lt die a maid
    And so lead apes to[31] hell.
    For why,[32] my dear, 'tis pity it should be so
    Thou'rt better than[33]
    To take a man
    And keep thee from the foe.
    Thou art so pretty and fine,
    And wondrous handsome too;
    Then be not coy,
    Let's get a boy:
    Alas! what should we do?
    I see thy brow,
    And well I know
    What colour is below:
    Then do not jest,
    But smile the rest:
    I'faith I know what I know.

  [31] Qy. "in"?

  [32] "For why" = because.

  [33] An old form of "then." I restore it (old ed. reads "then") for
  the sake of the rhyme.

From _Sportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment_, 1656.


    NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!
    A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.
    Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,
    Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.
    Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!
    I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.
    Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speed
    You mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.
    Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!
    Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.
    What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!
    You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.
    Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;
    You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wist
    So much before, I would have shut you out.
    Is it a proper thing you go about?
    I did not think you would have used me this,
    But now I see I took my aim amiss.
    A little thing would make me not be friends:
    You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.
    Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:
    You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.
    Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?
    If you go sweating down what will men think?
    Remember, sir, how you have used me now;
    Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.
    If any man but you had used me so,
    Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.
    Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,
    And then at cards we better shall agree.

  [34] This song was printed from a MS. in the Sloane Collection, by
  Ritson, in _Antient Songs_, 1790. It is in _Egerton MS._ 923, fol. 65,
  and _Ashmole MS._ 38, No. 272.

  ["Cf. _Oxford Drollery_ (3 stanzas), ii. 89, 'Nay pish, nay fie! you
  venter to enter,' which is by Thomas Jordan, or before 1664. There
  is much closer resemblance (beyond accidental coincidence) to 'Loves
  Follies,' a four stanza song in _Merry Drollery_, 1661, 'Nay, out upon
  this fooling, for shame!'"--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

From _Sloane MS._ 1792. fol. 6.


    YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,
    That fly from brain to brain,
    And represent a world of things
    With much ado and little pain:

    You visit ladies in their beds,
    And are most busy in their ease;
    You put such fancies in their heads
    That make them think of what you please.

    How highly am I bound to you
    (Safe messengers of secrecy)
    That made my mistress think on me
    Just in the place where I would be!

    O that you would me once prefer
    To be in place of one of you,
    That I might go to visit her
    And she might swear her dream were true!

From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

    SWEET, exclude me not, nor be divided
      From him that ere long must bed thee;
    All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;
      Sure[35] we are and I must wed thee.
    Presume then yet a little more:
    Here's the way, bar not the door.

    Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,
      Pay their rent before the quarter;
    'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;
      Put me not then off with laughter:
    Consider then a little more,
    Here's the way to all my store.

    Why were doors in love's despite devised,
      Are not laws enough restraining?
    Women are most apt to be surprised,
      Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.
    Then grace me yet a little more:
    Here's the way, bar not the door.

  [35] Affianced.

From THOMAS JORDAN'S _Poetical Varieties_,[36] 1637.



          DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,
            Aurora 'gins to jeer me:
          She tells me I do wantonise.
    _Castadorus._ I prithee, sweet, lie near me.

          Let red Aurora blush, my dear,
            And Phoebus laughing follow;
          Thou only art Aurora here,
            Let me be thy Apollo.

          It is to envy at our bliss
            That they do rise before us:
          Is there such hurt in this or this?
    _Arabella._ Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!

    _Castadorus._ What, Arabella, can one night
            Of wanton dalliance tire you?
          I could be ever if I might:
            One hour let me desire you.

    _Arabella._ Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!
            If you so roughly use me,
          What can I say or think of you.
    _Castadorus._ I prithee, Love, excuse me.

          Thy beauty and my love defend
            I should ungently move thee:
          'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:
            Is it not I that love thee?

    _Arabella._ I do confess it is, but then--
            Since you do so importune
          That I should once lie down again--
            Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.

          Aurora and Apollo, too,
            May visit silent fields;
          By my consent they ne'er shall know
            The bliss our pleasure yields.

  [36] Mr. Ebsworth kindly pointed out to me that this dialogue belongs
  to Jordan. I had taken it from _Wit and Drollery_, 1656. The earlier
  text is more correct. There is an MS. copy of it in _Harleian MS._
  3511 fol. 108.

From JOHN DOWLAND'S _Third Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603.

    WHEN Phoebus first did Daphne love,
    And no means might her favour move,
    He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,
    "Is I have vowed virginity."
    Then in a rage he sware and said,
    Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.

    If maidens then shall chance be sped
    Ere they can scarcely dress their head,
    Yet pardon them, for they be loth
    To make God Phoebus break his oath:
    And better 'twere a child were born
    Than that a God should be foresworn.

  In Wit's Interpreter, 1655, and other
  Miscellanies, a third stanza is given:--

      "Yet silly they, when all is done,
      Complain our wits their hearts have won,
      When 'tis for fear that they should be
      With Daphne turn'd into a tree:
      And who would so herself abuse
      To be a tree, if she could chuse?"

  The younger Donne printed the verses among the _Poems by William, Earl
  of Pembroke, and Benjamin Ruddier_, 1660, ascribing them to the Earl.
  Donne's authority carries no weight.

From _Harl. MS._ 791, fol. 54.

    WHY[37] should passion lead thee blind
    'Cause thy mistress is unkind?
    She's yet too young to shew delight
    And is not plumed for Cupid's flight;
    She cannot yet in height of pleasure
    Pay her lover equal measure,
    But like the rose new blown doth feed
    The eye alone but bears no seed.

    She is yet but in her spring,
    Cold in love till Cupid bring
    A hotter season with his fire,
    Which soon will ripen her desire.
    Autumn will shortly come and greet her,
    Making her taste and colour sweeter:
    Her ripeness then will soon be such
    As she will fall even with a touch.

  [37] This poem is ascribed by the younger Donne to William Herbert,
  Earl of Pembroke. It was very popular, and is found in many MS.
  collections. "Go, soul, the body's guest," is ascribed by Donne to
  Pembroke. People must have been very credulous in the second half of
  the seventeenth century. (See _Windsor Drollery_, 1672; _Add. MS._
  10309, &c.).

From _Malone MS._ 16.

    YES[38] I could love if I could find
    A mistress fitting to my mind;
    Whom neither pride nor gold could move
    To buy her beauty, sell her love;
    Were neat, yet cared not to be fine,
    And loved me for myself, not mine;
    Were rather comely than too fair,
    White skinn'd and of a lovely hair;
    Not ever-blushing, nor too bold;
    Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold;
    Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue;
    Nor puling weak, nor manlike strong;
    Modestly full of pleasing mirth,
    Yet close as centre of the earth;
    In whom you no passion see
    But when she looks or speaks of me;
    Who calls to bed with melting eyes;
    As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise:
    If such a one you chance to find,
    She is a mistress to my mind.

  [38] There is a printed copy of this poem, widely different from the
  MS. version, in the second book of _The Treasury of Music_, 1659.
  After l. 6, the printed copy reads:--

      "Not lady-proud nor city-coy,
      But full of freedom, full of joy;
      Not wise enough to rule a state,
      Nor so much fool to be laugh'd at;
      Nor childish young, nor beldam old;
      Not fiery hot, nor icy cold;
      Not richly proud, nor basely poor;
      Not chaste, yet no reputed whore.
      If such a one I chance to find,
      I have a mistress to my mind."

  Compare the song in Ben Jonson's _Poetaster_, ii. 1--

      "If I freely may discover
      What would please me in my lover," &c.

  which probably suggested the present poem.

From _Ashmole MS._ 38, No. 196.

    YOU that in the midst of night
    Can acquaint mine eyes with light,
    Also can command the day,
    When you please, to go or stay;
    Nothing can your powers resist
    Whilst your shining eyes persist.
    O do but smile! show more delight
    In adding lustre to the night,
    That your admirer now may say
    Night's more clearer than the day.

From _The Banquet of Music_, 1688.

    WHY is your faithful slave disdain'd?
    By gentle arts my heart you gain'd,
      O keep it by the same.
    For ever shall my passion last,
    If you will make me once possest
      Of what I dare not name.

    Though charming are your wit and face,
    'Tis not alone to hear and gaze
      That will suffice my flame.
    Love's infancy on hopes may live,
    But you to mine full grown must give
      Of what I dare not name.

    When I behold your lips, your eyes,
    Those snowy breasts that fall and rise,
      Fanning my raging flame;
    That shape so made to be embraced;
    What would I give I might but taste
      Of what I dare not name?

    In Courts I never wish to rise,
    Both wealth and honour I despise,
      And that vain breath call'd Fame;
    By Love I hope no crowns to gain,
    'Tis something more I would obtain--
      'Tis that I dare not name.

From _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655.


    _Beauteous Mistress_,

    THOUGH that no God may thee deserve,
    Yet for thy own sake (whom I serve)
    Abandon cold Virginity,
    The Queen of Love's sole enemy.
    Practise the gesture of a nun
    When your flowery youth is done:
    Pallas joys in single life
    'Cause she cannot be a wife.
    Love then, and be not tyrannous;
    Heal the heart thou hast wounded thus.
    Stain not thy youth with avarice;
    Fair fools love to be counted nice.
    The corn dies if it be not reapt,
    Beauty is lost too strictly kept.
    Come then (dearest) let's not tarry;
    One day more and we will marry.

              _Which he humbly begs, who is wholly
                    yours not to be disobliged_,
                                T. W.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

    'TIS[39] not how witty, nor how free,
    Nor yet how beautiful she be,
    But how much kind and true to me:
    Freedom and wit none can confine,
    And beauty like the sun doth shine,
    But Kind and True are only thine.

    Let others with attention sit
    To listen and admire her wit;
    That is a rock where I ne'er split.
    Let others dote upon her eyes
    And burn their hearts for sacrifice:
    Beauty's a calm where danger lies.

    Yet Kind and True have been long tried,
    A[40] harbour where we may confide
    And safely there at anchor ride:
    From change of winds there we are free,
    Nor need we fear storms' tyranny,
    Nor pirate though a prince he be.

  [39] This poem is also found in _The Academy of Compliments_ and other

  [40] Old ed. "And."

From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.

    SWEET Philomel in groves and desarts haunting
    Oft glads my heart and ears with her sweet chaunting,
        But then her tunes delight me best,
        When perched with prick against her breast
    She sings "Fy, fy!" as if she suffered wrong,
    Till, seeming pleased, "Sweet, sweet!" concludes her song.

    Sweet Jinny sings and talks and sweetly smileth,
    And with her wanton mirth my griefs beguileth,
        But then methinks she pleaseth best
        When, while my hands move love's request,
    She cries "Fy, fy!" and, seeming loth, gainsays,
    Till better pleased "Sweet, sweet!" content bewrays.

From _The Westminster Drollery_. (_The Second Part._) 1672.


    AS youthful day put on his best
      Attire to usher morn
    And she to greet her glorious guest
      Did her fair self adorn,
    Up did I rise, and hid mine eyes
      As I went through the street,
    Lest I should one that I despise
      Before a fairer meet.
            And why
            Was I,
      Think you, so nice and fine?
          Well did I wot
          (Who wots it not?)
      It was Saint Valentine.

    In fields by Phoebus great with young
      Of flowers and hopeful buds,
    Resembling thoughts that freshly sprung
      In lovers' lively bloods,
    A damsel fair and fine I saw,
      So fair and finely dight,
    As put my heart almost in awe
      To attempt a mate so bright:
            But O
            Why so?
      Her purpose was like mine,
          And readily
          She said as I
      "Good morrow, Valentine."

    A fair of love we kept a while:
      She for each word I said
    Gave me two smiles, and for each smile
      I her two kisses paid.
    The violet, made haste to appear
      To be her bosom-guest,
    With first primrose that grew this year,
      I purchased for[41] her breast:
            To me
            Gave she
      Her golden lock for mine;
          My ring of jet,
          For her bracelet,
      I gave my Valentine.

    Subscribed with a line of love,
      My name for her I wrote;
    In silk for me her name she wove
      Whereto this was her mot,[42]
    "As shall this year thy truth appear,
      I still, my dear, am thine";
    "Your mate today, and love for aye,
      If you so say," was mine.
            While thus
            On us
      Each other's favours shine,
          "No more have we
          To change," quoth she,
      "Now farewell, Valentine."

    "Alas," said I, "let friends not seem
      Between themselves so strange;
    The jewels both we dear'st esteem
      You know are yet to change."
    She answers, "No," yet smiles as though
      Her tongue her thought denies;
    Who truth of maiden's mind will know
      Must seek it in her eyes.
            She blush'd,
            I wish'd
      Her heart as free as mine,
          She sight[43] and sware
          "In sooth you are
      Too wanton, Valentine."

    Yet I such further favour won
      By suit and pleasing play,
    She vow'd what now was left undone
      Should finish'd be in May;
    And though perplex'd with such delay
      As more augments desire,
    'Twixt present grief and promised joy,
      I from my mate retire:
            If she
            To me
      Preserve her vows divine
          And constant troth,
          She shall be both
      My love and Valentine.

  [41] Old ed. "from."

  [42] Motto.

  [43] Sighed.

From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 206.


    GO and count her better hours,
    They more happy are than ours.
    The day that gives her any bliss
    Make it again as long as 'tis;
    The hour she smiles, O let that be
    By thy art increased to three.
    But if she frown on thee or me,
    Know night is made by her not thee:
    Be swift in such an hour and soon
    Make it night though it be noon,
    And stay her times who is the free
    Fair sun that governs thee and me.

  [44] Also in _Wit's Recreations_ (with slightly altered text).

From _Wit Restored_, 1658.


    I WILL not do a sacrifice
    To thy face or to thy eyes,
    Nor unto thy lily palm,
    Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;
    But the part to which my heart
        In vows is seal'd
    Is that mine of bliss divine
        Which is conceal'd.

    What's the golden fruit to me
    If I may not pluck the tree?
    Bare enjoying all the rest
    Is but like a golden feast,
    Which at need can never feed
        Our love-sick wishes:
    Let me eat substantial meat,
        Not view the dishes.

From _Wit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden_, 1674.


    LOVE, in rambling once astray,
    Was benighted in his way;
    With cold and tiresome cares opprest,
    He creeps in fair Lucina's breast
    To shelter there and take his rest.
    The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,
    And of an unexpected guess[45]
    Much less,
    To come so late,
    Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,
    Prepares his arms to try a feat.
    The deed scarce done, the nymph awakes
    And in the act the youngster takes,
    Strangely surprised, yet well contented too
    That she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.
    Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,
    She liked his presence more and more;
    Telling him, rather than he should begone,
    She'd nurse and keep him as her own;
    And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,
    She'd find him lodging next her heart.

  [45] Old form of "guest."

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    PISH,[46] modest sipper, to't again!
    My sweetest joy,
    The wine's not coy
    As women are.
    My dearest puling, prithee then,
    Prithee, my fair,
    Once more bedew those lips of thine,
    Mend thy draught and mend the wine.
    Since it hath tasted of thy lip
    (Too quickly cloy'd),
    How overjoy'd
    It cheerfully
    Invites thee to another sip.
    Methinks I see
    The wine perfumed by thee, my fair:
    Bacchus himself is dabbling there.
    Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;
    Bathe that cherry
    In the sherry,
    The jocund wine
    Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye
    As more divine;
    Though thou take none to drink to me,
    Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.
    Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!
    Well, I perceive
    Why this you leave;
    My love reveals
    And makes me guess what 'tis you mean:
    Because at meals
    My lips are kept from kissing thee,
    Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.

  [46] There is an inferior version of this poem in _Wit's Interpreter_.

From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.


    THERE is not half so warm a fire
    In the fruition as desire.
    When I have got the fruit of pain
    Possession makes me poor again:
    Expected forms and shapes unknown
    Whet and make sharp tentation.
    Sense is too niggardly for bliss,
    And pays me dully with what is;
    But fancy's liberal and gives all
    That can within her vastness fall.
    Veil therefore still, while I divine
    The treasure of this hidden mine,
    And make imagination tell
    What wonders doth in beauty dwell.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.


_The Rose's Speech._

    FAIREST, if you roses seek,
    Take the nearest like your cheek.
    I, the damask, would presume
    To tender you my sweet perfume;
    I am young, like you, a bud,
    Peeping thorough my green hood,
    Blushing only 'cause I see
    Fresher roses grow on thee.
    Crop me then and let me lie
    In the sun-shine of thine eye
    Till full-blown; then let me grow
    In thy bosom, next thy snow,
    That I may find, when my leaves fall,
    In that sweet place a funeral.
    Then, Celia, be you like the rose,
    Who its season wisely chose;
    Do not keep your maiden flower
    Beyond its time, its full ripe hour.
    Like the rose, you need not offer;
    But when a worthy hand doth proffer,
    Refuse not, Celia: on my life
    You'll wear as fresh when you're a wife.
    Let not your beauties untouch'd die,
    Or wither'd and neglected lie;
    Rather let them thrive i' th' light
    Of his am'rous eager sight,
    That when at last they fall and spread
    It may be sweetly on his bed.

From _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_, 1658.


    LOSE no time nor youth but be
    Kind to men, as they to thee;
    The fair lilies that now grow
    In thy cheeks, and purely show,
    The cherry and the rose that blow,
    If too long they hang and waste,
    Winter comes that all will blast.
    Thou art ripe, full ripe for men;
    In thy sweets be gather'd then.

From _Westminster Drollery_ (_Second Part_), 1672.


        SHALL we die
        Both thou and I,
    And leave the world behind us?
        Come, I say,
        And let's away,
    For nobody here doth mind us.

        Why do we gape?
        We cannot scape
    The doom that is assign'd us;
        When we are in grave,
        Altho' we rave,
    There is nobody needs to bind us.

        The clerk shall sing,
        The sexton ring,
    And old wives they shall wind us;
        The priest shall lay
        Our bones in clay,
    And nobody there shall find us.

        Farewell wits,
        And folly's fits,
    And griefs that often pined us!
        When we are dead
        We'll take no heed
    What nobody says behind us.

        Merry nights,
        And false delights,
    Adieu! ye did but blind us:
        We must to mould,
        Both young and old,
    Till nobody's left behind us.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.


    TO her whose beauty doth excel
    Story, we toss these cups and sell
    Sobriety a sacrifice
    To the bright lustre of her eyes.
    Each soul that sips here is divine:
    Her beauty deifies the wine.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 48.


    NATURE that wash'd her hands in milk
      And had forgot to dry them,
    Instead of earth took snow and silk
      At Love's request to try them,
    If she a mistress could compose
    To please Love's fancy out of those.

    Her eyes he would should be of light;
      A violet breath, and lips of jelly;
    Her hair not black, nor over-bright;
      And of the softest down her belly:
    As for her inside he 'ld have it
    Only of wantonness and wit.

    At Love's entreaty such a one
      Nature made, but with her beauty
    She hath framed a heart of stone;
      So as Love, by ill destiny,
    Must die for her whom Nature gave him,
    Because her darling would not save him.

    But Time, which Nature doth despise,
      And rudely gives her love the lie,
    Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise,
      His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry;
    But being made of steel and rust,
    Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.

    The light, the belly, lips, and breath,
      He dims, discolours,[48] and destroys;
    With those he feeds, but fills not, Death,
      Which sometimes were the food of joys:
    Yea Time doth dull each lively wit,
    And dries all wantonness with it.

    Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust,
      Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
    And pays us but with age and dust;
      Who in the dark and silent grave,
    When we have wander'd all our ways,
    Shuts up the story of our days.

  [47] This is the heading in the MS. Archdeacon Hannah, in his valuable
  edition of Raleigh's poems, makes no mention of this MS. poem. The
  last stanza, with a couple of lines tacked on, was printed in
  Raleigh's _Remains_, where it is stated to have been "found in his
  bible in the Gatehouse at Westminster." The whole poem is very much in
  Raleigh's manner; and I congratulate myself upon its discovery.

  [48] MS. "discovers."

From _Add. MS._ 2218, fol. 32 (compared with a copy in _Wit and
Drollery_, 1661).


    LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,
    Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyes
    Ne'er shot glance but might beseem
    Diana and her maiden team
    Of icy virgins; hence, away!
    Disturb not our licentious play,
    For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.

    Go, glory in the empty name
    Of virgin; let your idle flame
    Consume itself, while we enjoy
    Those pleasures which fair Venus' boy
    Grants to those whose mingled thighs
    Are trophies of his victories,[49]
    From whence new pleasures still arise.

    Those only are admitted here
    Whose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fear
    Of man's embraces; whose fair face
    Can give enjoyment such a grace
    As wipes away the hated name
    Of lust, and calls their amorous flame
    A virtue free from fear or shame.

    With them we'll number kisses till
    We pose arithmetic, and fill
    Our hearts with pleasure[50] till it swells
    Beyond those bounds where blushing dwells:
    Then will we ourselves entomb
    In those joys which fill the womb,
    Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.

    At waking no repentance shall
    With our past sweetness mingle gall;
    We'll kiss again till we restore
    Our strength again to venture more:
    Then we'll renew again our play,
    Admitting of no long delay
    Till we end our holiday.

    W. MUNSEY.[51]

  [49] This line is omitted in the MS.

  [50] Both the MS. and printed copy read "pleasures."

  [51] I have at present no information about "W. Munsey," whose name is
  attached to this (not very valuable) poem in the MS. In Rawlinson MS.
  117, fol. 151, a copy of "I saw fair Chloris walk alone" (which has
  been attributed, without evidence, by some to Carew, and by others to
  Herrick) is subscribed "Munsey." The well-known poem, "In the nonage
  of a winter's day," usually ascribed to Carew, is signed in _Rawlinson
  MS. Poet._, 210, "W. Munsey."

From _Harl. MS._ 7332, fol. 47.

    IN summer-time, when birds do sing,
      And country maids are making hay,
    As I went forth myself alone
      To view the meadows fresh and gay,
    The country maidens I espied
      With fine lawn aprons as white as snow,
    And crimson ribands about their arms,
      Which made a pretty country show.
    The young men fell a-prating,
    And took the maidens from hay-making
    To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
      Up and down the green meadow.

    The next day being holiday,
      And country maids they would be seen,
    Each took his sweet-heart by the hand
      And went to dance upon the green:
    The country maids incontinent[52]
      Unto the green assembled were,
    Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53]
      Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair:
    The young men fell a-skipping,
    The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping,
    They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble]
      Up and down[54] the green meadow.

    The old men that had lived long
      And viewed full many a summer's day,
    Came gently walking by themselves
      To see them keep their holiday:
    The married men of middle age
      Brought forth their wives to see that sport,
    And they put on their best array,
      Unto the green they did resort:
    There music sweetly sounding,
    The maidens' hearts with joys abounding,
    They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, tumble
      Up and down the green meadow.
    When they with tumbling well had sweat,
      And tumbling joys had tasted well,
    And Phoebus almost lost his heat,
      Each did return where they did dwell:
    Their wives unto their husbands said
      The pretty sports which they had seen,
    Wish'd them to teach them in their bed[55]
      As did the lovers on the green:
    The young men joyful-hearted
    Each took his lass and so departed,
    When they no more could tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
      Up and down the green meadow.

  [52] Immediately, without delay.

  [53] MS. "ornaments."

  [54] MS. "vppon downe."

  [55] MS. "beds."

From _Harleian MS._ 791, fol. 55.

    IN summer time when grass was mown
    And country maids were treading of hay,
    Then forth walked I in a fair morning
    Thinking to pass the time away.
    Fair lovely nymphs might there be seen
    With fine lawn aperns[56] white as snow,
    And crimson ribbons 'bout their arms,
    Which made a pretty summer show.
    There young lovers fell a-prating,
    And called their lovers from hay-making
    To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
    Up and down the meadow.
    Then the old wives fell a-laughing,
    And held their sides with extreme coughing,
    To see them tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
    Up and down the meadows.

  [56] Old form of _aprons_.

From _Wit Restored_, 1658.


    ONCE I must confess I loved
      And expected love again,
    But, so often as I proved,
      My expectance was in vain.

    Women joy to be attempted,
      And do glory when they see
    Themselves from love's force exempted,
      And that men captived be.

    If they love they can conceal it,
      And dissemble when they please,
    Whenas men will straight reveal it
      And make known their heart's disease.

    Men must beg and crave their favour,
      Making many an idle vow,
    Whilst they, froward in behaviour,
      Fain would yield but know not how.

    Sweet stol'n-sport to them is grateful,
      And in heart they wish to have it;
    Yet they do account it hateful
      Upon any terms to crave it.

    But, would men not go about it,
      But leave off at all to woo,
    Ere they would be long without it,
      They would beg and crave it too.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    GAZE[57] not on thy beauty's pride,
    Tender maid, in the false tide
    That from lovers' eyes do[th] slide.

    Let thy faithful crystal show
    How thy colours come and go;
    Beauty takes a foil from woe.

    Love, that in those smooth streams lies,
    Under Pity's fair disguise,
    Will thy melting heart surprise.

    Nets of Passion's finest thread
    (Snaring poems) will be spread
    All to catch thy maidenhead.

    Then beware: for those that cure
    Love's disease, themselves endure
    For a reward a calenture.

    Rather let the lover pine
    Than his pale cheek should assign
    A perpetual blush to thine.

  [57] Attributed to Thomas Carew.

From _Wit's Recreations_, 1640.


    'TIS true your beauty,[58] which before
    Did dazzle each bold gazer's eye,
    And forced e'en rebel hearts t' adore
    Or from its conquering splendor fly,
    Now shines with new increase of light,
    Like Cynthia at her full most bright.

    Yet, though you glory in th' increase
    Of so much beauty, dearest fair,
    They err who think this great access,
    Of which all eyes th' admirers are,
    Or art's or nature's gifts should be:
    Learn then the hidden cause from me.

    Pity in thee, in me desire
    First bred: before I durst but aim
    At fair respect: now that close fire
    Thy love hath fann'd into a flame,
    Which, mounting to its proper place,
    Shines like a glory 'bout thy face.

  [58] Old ed. "beauties."

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

    BE[59] thou joyful, I am jolly;
      In thy pleasure's my delight.
    Art th' inclined to melancholy?
      I am of that humour right;
    For I can joy, or joys can slight.

    Art thou liberal of embraces?
      I can also lavish be.
    Or dost thou scorn to yield such graces?
      I can scorn as well as thee:
    Of these I can be nice or free.

    Dost thou joy I should attain thee?
      Then I will thy servant be;
    Or if my presence do disdain thee,
      I will never wait on thee;
    For I can love or let thee be.

    If to singing thou'lt apply thee,
      I can warble notes to thee:
    Or if to[60] sighing, I'll sigh by thee;
      To thy passions I'll agree,
    For I'm to all thy humours free.

    Dost thou joy I should come near thee
      With a heart both firm and true?
    Or dost thou fly my sight and jeer me?
      Unto lovers that's not new;
    For I can stay or bid adieu.

  [59] There is a somewhat similar copy of verses in _Choice Drollery_,

      "If at this time I am derided,
        And you please to laugh at me,
      Know I am not unprovided
        Every way to answer thee,
      Love or hate, Whate'er it be," &c.

  [60] Old ed. "by."

From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Second Book of Airs_, 1612.

    AWAY, away! call back what you have said
    When you did vow to live and die a maid:
    O if you knew what chance to them befell
    That dance about with bobtail apes in hell,
    Yourself your virgin girdle would divide
    And put aside the maiden veil that hides
    The chiefest gem of nature; and would lie
    Prostrate to every peasant that goes by,
    Rather than undergo such shame: no tongue can tell
    What injury is done to maids in hell.

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

    UNDER[61] the willow-shades they were
      Free from the eye-sight of the sun,
    For no intruding beam could there
      Peep through to spy what things were done:
        Thus sheltered they unseen did lie,
        Surfeiting on each other's eye;
    Defended by the willow shades alone,
    The sun's heat they defied and cool'd their own.

    Whilst they did embrace unspied,
      The conscious willow seem'd to smile,
    That them[62] with privacy supplied,
      Holding the door, as 'twere, the while;
        And when their dalliances were o'er,
        The willows, to oblige them more,
    Bowing, did seem to say, as they withdrew,
    "We can supply you with a cradle too."

  [61] Mr. Ebsworth reminds me that this is Theocles' song, by Sir
  William Davenant, sung in Act iii. of "The Rivals," 1668.

  [62] Old ed. "they."

From _The Treasury of Music_, 1669.


    POOR Cælia once was very fair,
      A quick bewitching eye she had;
    Most neatly look'd her braided hair,
      Her dainty cheek would make you mad:
    Upon her lips did all the Graces play,
    And on her breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.

    Then many a doting lover came,
      From seventeen till twenty-one;
    Each told her of his mighty flame,
      But she foresooth affected none:
    One was not handsome, 'tother was not fine,
    This of tobacco smelt and that of wine.

    But 'tother day it was my fate
      To walk along that way alone;
    I saw no coach before her gate,
      But at her door I heard her moan:
    She dropt a tear, and sighing seem'd to say
    "Young ladies, marry, marry while you may!"

  [63] This poem is by Thomas Flatman, and is printed among his _Songs
  and Poems_, 1669.

  ["Also in _Westminster Drollery_, _Windsor Drollery_, and _Pills to P.
  Mel._, iii. 153. The music to it was composed by Roger Hill."--_J. W.

From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Second book of Airs_, 1612.

    TWO lovers sat lamenting
      Hard by a crystal brook,
    Each other's heart tormenting,
      Exchanging look for look,
        With sighs and tears bewraying
        Their silent thoughts delaying:
          At last coth[64] one,
          "Shall we alone
        Sit here our thoughts bewraying?
          Fie, fie, O fie,
        O fie it may not be:
          Set looking by,
        Let speaking set us free."

    Then thus their silence breaking,
      Their thoughts too long estranged
    They do bewray by speaking,
      And words with words exchanged:
        Then one of them replied,
        "Great pity we had died
          Thus all alone
          In silent moan
        And not our thoughts descried.
          Fie, fie, O fie,
        O fie that had been ill
          That inwardly
        Silence the heart should kill."

    From looks and words to kisses
      They made their next proceeding,
    And as their only blisses
      They therein were exceeding.
        O what a joy is this
        To look, to talk, to kiss!
          But thus begun,
          Is now all done?
        Ah, all then nothing is!
          Fie, fie, O fie,
        O fie it is a hell
          And better die
        Than kiss and not end well.

  [64] "Coth" = quoth.

From _Sportive Wit_, 1656.

    CHLORIS,[65] forbear a while,
      Do not o'erjoy me,
    Urge not another smile
      Lest it destroy me;
    That beauty passeth most
      And is best taking,
    Which is soon won, soon lost,
      Kind, yet forsaking:
    I love a coming Lady, 'faith I do,
    But now and then I'd have her scornful too.

    O'ercloud those eyes of thine,
      Bopeep thy features,
    Warm with an April shine,
      Scorch not thy creatures;
    Still to display thy ware,
      Still to be fooling,
    Argues how rude you are
      In Cupid's schooling:
    Disdain begets a smile, scorn draws us nigh,
    'Tis 'cause I would, and cannot, makes me try.

    Chloris, I'd have thee wise:
      When gallants view thee,
    Courting do thou despise,
      Fly those pursue thee:
    Fast moves an appetite
      Makes hunger greater;
    Who's stinted of delight
      Falls to't the better:
    Be coy and kind betimes, be smooth and rough,
    And buckle now and then, and that's enough.

  [65] "This was written by Henry Bold; it is in his _Poems Lyrique_,
  1664, p. 6."--_J. W. Ebsworth._ (I suspect Bold stole it: he was a
  notorious pilferer.)

From _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_. By T. W., 1654.

    FAIR Chloris in a gentle slumber lay,
                  Sleep taking rest
                  In her calm breast,
    Whilst her veil'd eyes seem'd to eclipse the day

    The wanton sun would court her fain,
    Peep'd here and there, but all in vain.
    The leafy boughs a guard had made,
    Planting between their envious shade;
    Whereat he chid his idle beams, that he
    Should want an eye whereby himself might see.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER'S _Book of Airs_, 1601.

    MY love hath vowed he will forsake me,
      And I am already sped;
    Far other promise he did make me
      When he had my maidenhead.
    If such danger be in playing
      And sport must to earnest turn,
    I will go no more a-maying.

    Had I foreseen what is ensued,
      And what now with pain I prove,
    Unhappy then I had eschewed
      This unkind event of love:
    Maids foreknow their own undoing,
      But fear naught till all is done,
    When a man alone is wooing.

    Dissembling wretch, to gain thy pleasure,
      What didst thou not vow and swear?
    So didst thou rob me of the treasure
      Which so long I held so dear.
    Now thou provest to me a stranger:
      Such is the vile guise of men
    When a woman is in danger.

    That heart is nearest to misfortune
      That will trust a feigned tongue;
    When flatt'ring men our loves importune
      They intend us deepest wrong.
    If this shame of love's betraying
      But this once I cleanly shun,
    I will go no more a-maying.

From _Vinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company_, 1687.

    SILVIA, now your scorn give over
    Lest you lose a faithful lover:
    If this humour you pursue,
    Farewell Love and Silvia too.
    Long have I been unregarded,
    Sighs and tears still unrewarded:
    If this does with you agree,
    Troth, good Madam, 'twon't with me.

From _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655.

    MAIDS[66] they are grown so coy of late
      Forsooth they will not marry;
    Though they be in their teens and past,
      They say that they can tarry.
    But if they knew how sweet a thing
      It were in youth to marry,
    They'd sell their petticoats, smocks, and all
      Ere they so long would tarry.

    The wench that is most coy of all,
      If she had time and leisure,
    Would lay by all her several thoughts
      And turn to love and pleasure;
    For even the wisest heads sometimes
      Put on the face of folly,
    And maids do nevermore repent
      Than when they are too holy.

    Winter nights are long, you know,
      And bitter cold the weather;
    Then who's so fond to lie alone
      When two may lie together?
    And is't not brave when summer's robes
      Have all the fields encowled
    To have a green gown on the grass
      And wear it uncontroul'd?

  [66] D'Urfey printed these verses in his _Pills to Purge Melancholy_,
  1700, ii. 93, as "The Silly Maids."

From HENRY LAWES' _Airs and Dialogues_, 1653.


    LADIES, you that seem so nice,
    And as cold in show as ice,
    And perhaps have held out thrice;
    Do not think but in a trice
    One or other may entice,
    And at last by some device
    Set your honours at a price.

    You whose smooth and dainty skin,
    Rosy lips, or cheeks, or chin,
    All that gaze upon you win,
    Yet insult not: sparks within
    Slowly burn ere flames begin,
    And presumption still hath been
    Held a most notorious sin.

  [67] This poem is ascribed by Lawes to Henry Harrington, son to Sir
  Henry Harrington. It is found among the _Fancies and Fantasticks_
  appended to _Wit's Recreations_.

  ["It has also been accredited to Dr. Henry Hughes; the initials suggest
  the ambiguity. It is also in Playford's _Select Ayres_, 1659, p.
  26."--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1617).

    IF any hath the heart to kill,
      Come rid me of this woeful pain,
    For while I live I suffer still
      This cruel torment all in vain;
    Yet none alive but one can guess
    What is the cause of my distress.

    Thanks be to heaven, no grievous smart,
      No maladies my limbs annoy:
    I bear a sound and sprightful heart
      Yet live I quite deprived of joy;
    Since what I had in vain I crave,
    And what I had not now I have.

    A love I had so fair, so sweet,
      As ever wanton eye did see;
    Once by appointment we did meet:
      She would, but ah! it would not be.
    She gave her heart, her hand she gave:
    All did I give, she naught could have.

    What hag did then my powers forespeak,
      That never yet such taint did feel?
    Now she rejects me as one weak,
      Yet am I all composed of steel.
    Ah! this is it my heart doth grieve:
    Now, though she sees, she'll not believe.

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

    WHEN doth Love set forth desire?
    In prime of youth, men say.
    And when again will it retire?
    When beauty falls away.
    Then you in youth that think on this,
    Taste what the sweetness of love is.

    The night comes not at lovers' call;
    Being come, stays not their leisure;
    Hours that are sweet are swift withall,
    And attend not on our pleasure:[68]
    Then you in youth, that think on this,
    Taste what the sweet of beauty is.

  [68] Old ed. "leasure."

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

    I[69] WALK'D abroad not long ago,
    But will not tell you whither;
    It is where flowers of beauty grow
    And fair ones flock together.
    And Cupid will great wonders show
    If ever you come thither.

    For like two suns, two beauties bright
    Did shining sit together,
    As tempted by their double light
    Mine eyes were fix'd on either;
    And both at once so show'd their might,
    I loved, but knew not whether.

    Such equal sweetness Venus gave
    That she preferr'd not either;
    That when for love I sought to crave,
    I knew not well of whether:
    For one while this I liked to have,
    And then I that had rather.

    A lover of the choicest eye
    Might have been pleased with either,
    And so I must confess should I,
    Had they not been together:
    Now both must love or both deny,
    In one enjoy I neither.

    But, happy chance, I feel no smart
    To curse my coming thither;
    For, since that my divided heart
    I[n] choosing knew not whether,
    Love angry grew and did depart:
    And now I care for neither.

  [69] I ought perhaps to omit this poem, for it is fairly well known.
  The writer was George Wither, in whose _Fair Virtue_, 1622, it first
  appeared. There are other versions in the _Marrow of Compliments_,
  1655, and similar collections.

From _Melpomene; or the Muses' Delight_, 1678.


    TAKE Time, my dear, ere Time takes wing:
    Beauty knows no second spring.
    Marble pillars, tombs of brass,
    Time breaks down, much more this glass.
    Then ere that tyrant Time bespeak it,
    Let's drink healths in't first, then break it.
    At twenty-five in women's eyes
    Beauty does fade, at thirty dies.

From _Comes Amoris_, 1687.

    WHEN[70] first Amyntas sued for a kiss
    My innocent heart was tender,
    That though I pushed him away from the bliss,
    My eyes declared my heart was won.
    I fain an artful coyness would use
    Before the fort I did surrender;
    But Love would suffer no more such abuse,
    And soon alas! my cheat was known.
    He'd sit all day, and laugh and play;
    A thousand pretty things would say;
    My hand he'd squeeze, and press my knees,
    Till further on he got by degrees.

    My heart, just like a vessel at sea,
    Would toss when Amyntas was near me.
    But ah, so cunning a pilot was he,
    Through doubts and fears he'd still sail on;
    I thought in him no danger could be,
    So wisely he knew how to steer me;
    And soon, alas! was brought t'agree
    To taste of joys before unknown.
    Well might he boast his pain not lost,
    For soon he found the golden coast,
    Enjoyed the ore, and touched the shore
    Where never merchant went before.

  [70] This song is by Tom D'Urfey, and is printed in the first volume
  of his _Pills to Purge Melancholy_. In _Comes Amoris_ the reading is

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.

    SOME men desire spouses
    That come of noble houses,
    And some would have in marriage
    Ladies of courtly carriage:
                Fa la la!
    But few desire, as I do,
    The maidenhead of a widow.
                Fa la la!

    Some think fair youth will cherish
    Strength that begins to perish;
    I'll have no colts to taming,
    Let me be young'st at gaming.
                Fa la la!
    I'll get o'er, I'll go nigh to,
    The maidenhead of a widow.
                Fa la la!

From _The Westminster Drollery_, 1671.


    PHILLIS, for shame! let us improve
      A thousand several ways
    These few short minutes stol'n by love
      From many tedious days.

    Whilst you want courage to despise
      The censure of the grave,
    For all the tyrants in your eyes,
      Your heart is but a slave.

    My love is full of noble pride,
      And never will submit
    To let that fop Discretion ride
      In triumph o'er our wit.

    False friends I have, as well as you,
      That daily counsel me
    Vain friv'lous trifles to pursue
      And leave off loving thee.

    When I the least belief bestow
      On what such fools advise,
    May I be dull enough to grow
      Most miserably wise.

  [71] "With music by Pelham Humphrey, in Playford's _Choice Ayres_, i.
  34. Twice given in _Windsor Drollery_. Believed to be by Charles, Earl
  of Dorset."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_. By T. W., 1654.


_On a Bracelet of her Hair._

    KNOW, Sylvia, that your curious twist,
    Which charms my heart and decks my wrist,
    On which I gaze so oft and pay
    Thousands of kisses every day,
    Is not so much my love and care
    'Cause tis composed of your hair;
    And yet it truly may be said
    Sun-beams are woven of coarser thread;
    Nor do I therefore like 't so much
    Because I find the art is such
    That if Arachne, when she strove
    With Pallas, the like web had wove,
    She had her skill and wrath o'ercome
    And gain'd a triumph, not a doom:
    No, Sylvia, I the truth will tell;
    I do not therefore like 't so well
    Because it is thy hair and art,
    But that it is thy gift, dear heart.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

        I HAVE followed thee a year at least,
        And never stopped myself to rest,
        But yet can thee o'ertake no more
    Than this day can the day that went before.

        In this our fortunes equal prove
        To stars which govern them above;
        Our stars they move for ever round
    With the same distance still betwixt them found.

        In vain, alas! in vain I strive
        The wheel of fate faster to drive,
        Since if around it swifter fly,
    She in it mends her pace as much as I.

        Hearts by Love strangely shuffled are,
        That there can never meet a pair;
        Tamelier than worms are lovers slain;
    The wounded heart ne'er turns to wound again.

From _Tixall Poetry_,[72] 1813.


    WHAT though Flora frowns on me?
    'Tis but a chance of destiny.
    The wisest I have heard to say,
    'Tis dusk before the break of day.
    Why should I curse that hour of night
    That brings the day to light?

    Each angry look appears to me
    As witness of her modesty;
    And blustering storms do but forerun
    The lustre of a brighter sun;
    Which when appeased, I'm full possess'd
    Her frowns are but in jest.

    I know, fair Flora, in thy breast
    A killing anger cannot rest:
    Yet for my humour I will love
    Though thou to me a fury prove:
    I know thy soul is so refined
    Thou wilt at last prove kind.

  [72] From the section containing _Poems Collected by the Right
  Honourable Lady Aston_ (p. 136).

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

    FAIREST thing that shines below,
      Why in this robe dost thou appear?
    Wouldst thou a white most perfect show,
      Thou must at all no garments wear:
    For thou wilt seem much whiter so
    Than winter when 'tis clad in snow.

    'Tis not the linen shows so fair,
      Her skin shines through and makes it bright;
    So clouds themselves like suns appear
      When the sun pierces them with light;
    So, lilies in a glass enclose,
    The glass will seem as white as those.

    Thou now one heap of beauty art,
      Nought outwards or within is foul;
    Condensed beams make every part,
      The body's clothed like the soul,
    Thy soul which does itself display
    Like a star placed i' th' milky way.

    Such robes the saints departed wear,
      Woven all with light divine;
    Such their exalted bodies are,
      And with such full glory shine:
    But they regard no mortal's pain,
    Men pray (I fear) to both in vain.

    Yet, seeing thee so gently pure,
      My hopes will needs continue still;
    Thou wouldst not take this garment, sure,
      When thou hadst an intent to kill:
    Of peace and yielding who would doubt
    When the white flag he sees hung out?

From _Wit's Cabinet_, n. d.


    PRETTY nymph, why always blushing?
    If thou love'st why art thou so coy?
    In thy cheeks these roses flushing
    Shew thee fearful of thy joy.
    What is man that thou shouldst dread
    To change with him a maidenhead?
    At first all virgins fear to do it
    And but trifle away their time,
    And still unwilling to come to it
    In foolish whining spend their time;
    But when they once have found the way,
    Then they are for it night and day.

From _Harl. MS._ 7332. fol. 242.

    O HOW oftentimes have I
    Under green trees in the shade
    My seat made,
    Dainty birds for to hear sing
    And the woods with music ring.

    But the case is altered quite:
    My delight
    Is to hear my mistress dear
    Singing clear;
    That music's sweet harmony
    Makes with joy my heart to die.

    O how oftentimes have I
    Seen so many pleasant flowers
    After showers
    Blushingly to show their pride,
    As if still they should abide.

    But the case is altered quite:
    My delight
    Is to see how prettily,
    When that I
    Have stol'n a kiss, she will blush
    And in jest me from her push.

    Adieu, then, without delay,
    I do say,
    Old delights, unpleasant toys;
    For no joys
    Ye now have which me do please
    Or can comfort or can ease.

    But pray come without delay,
    I do say,
    My new delight, most pleasant joy,
    And no toy;
    It is you which me do please,
    And can comfort and can ease.

From _Wit Restored_, 1658.


    'TIS not, dear Love, that amber twist,
    Which circles round thy captive wrist,
    Can have the power to make me more
    Your prisoner than I was before;
    Though I that bracelet dearer hold
    Than misers would a chain of gold.
        Yet this but ties my outward part:
        Heart-strings alone can tie my heart.

    'Tis not that soft and silken wreath,
    Your hands did unto mine bequeath,
    Can bind with half so powerful charms
    As the embraces of your arms;
    Although not iron bands, my fair,
    Can bind more fiercely than your hair.
        Yet that will chain me most will be
        Your heart in True Love's-knot to me.

    'Tis not those beams, your hairs, nor all
    Your glorious outside doth me thrall;
    Although your looks have force enow[73]
    To make the stateliest tyrants bow,
    Nor any angel could deny
    Your person his idolatry.
        Yet I do not so much adore
        The temple, but the goddess more.

    If then my soul you would confine
    To prison, tie your heart to mine;
    Your noble virtues, constant love,
    The only pow'rful chains will prove
    To bind me ever; such as those
    The bands of death shall ne'er unloose,
        Until I such a prisoner be
        No liberty can make me free.

  [73] Old ed. "enough."



    NAKED love did to thine eye,
    Fairest, once to warm him fly;
    But its purer flame and light
    Scorch'd his wings and spoil'd his sight.

    Forced from thence, he went to rest
    In the soft couch of thy breast;
    But there met a frost so great
    As his torch extinguish'd straight!

    When poor Cupid, being constrain'd
    His cold bed to leave, complain'd,
    "What a lodging's here for me,
    If all ice and fire she be!"

From _Wit's Recreations_, 1663.


    LADY, on your eyes I gazed;
            When amazed
          At their brightness,
    On your breasts I cast a look,
            No less took
          With their whiteness:
    Both I justly did admire,
    These all snow and those all fire.

    Whilst these wonders I survey'd,
            Thus I said
          In suspense:
    Nature could have done no less,
            To express
          Her providence,
    Than that two such fair worlds might
    Have two suns to give them light.

From _Tixall Poetry_,[74] 1813.


    WOULD you be a man of fashion?
      Would you lead a life divine?
    Take a little dram of passion
      In a lusty dose of wine.

    If the nymph have no compassion,
      Vain it is to sigh and groan:
    Love was but put in for fashion,
      Wine will do the work alone.


    WOULD you know earth's highest pleasure?
      Would you rival gods above?
    Drink rich wines, but drink with measure,
      But fear no excess in love.

    Or if wine you quite give over,
      You will nothing lose thereby;
    All is rapture to a lover,
      So in love he live or die.

  [74] From the section containing _Poems Collected by the Honourable
  Herbert Aston_ (pp. 307, 308).

  [75] "This was a song of 1683, set to music by Captain Pack, and not
  improbably to his own words. It was printed in 1684 in Playford's
  _Choice Ayres_, v. 14, and parodies soon followed. Cf. _Roxburghe
  Ballads_, iv. 350."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From _Wit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden_, 1674.[76]


    TO bed ye two in one united go,
      To pleasures killing;
    Embrace and struggle till your spirits flow,
      Embrace more willing
    Than th' loving palms (great union's wonder),
    That ne'er bore any fruit asunder.

    Be young to each when winter and grey hairs
      Your head shall climb;
    May your affections like the merry spheres
      Still move in time,
    And may (with many a good presage)
    Your marriage prove your merry age.

  [76] "This appeared twenty-four years earlier, being by Robert Baron,
  among his _Poems_, 1650, p. 65."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 199.


    DO not rack my bleeding heart;
    Fling away, or show thy dart;
            Delay is a worse pain
            Than proud disdain.

    Do not starve my ling'ring soul,
    That still waits till thou control;
            And either send home mine
            Or give me thine.

    Dost thou love me as thine own?
    O then smile and do not frown:
            Love soured with debate
            Is worse than hate.

    Dost thou hate me as too vile?
    O then frown and do not smile:
            Hate sweetened so will prove
            Worse than love.

    Sourest friend and sweetest foe,
    Do not love and hate me too:
            O 'tis a double ill
            To wound and kill!

    Quickly, quickly, speak my fate:
    Dost thou love or dost thou hate?
            Lest I too soon remove
            And hate thy love.


From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 199.


    SIGHS, blow out those flames in me,
      Or else allay them, ye cold fears,
    Till so their heat chastised be;
      And then I'll quench them with my tears.

    But oh! my tears but oil will prove
      To feed the flame of my desire:
    My fears they stir the coals of love,
      My sighs like bellows blow the fire.

    But surely I'll not fail of this:
      I'll sigh away my soul in air,
    Leaving my body cold as is
      Her love to me or my despair.

  W. R.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 86.

    HE or she that hopes to gain
    Love's best sweet without some pain,
    Hopes in vain.

    Cupid's livery no one wears
    But must put on hopes and fears,
    Smiles and tears,

    And, like to April weather,
    Rain and shine both together,
    Both or neither.

From _Harl. MS._ 4955. fol. 146. (By DR. ANDREWES.[77])


    COME, be my valentine!
    I'll gather eglantine,
    Cowslips and sops-in-wine,
            With fragrant roses.
    Down by thy Phillis sit,
    She will white lilies get,
    And daffadilies fit
            To make thee posies.

    I have a milk-white lamb,
    New-taken from the dam,
    It comes where'er I am
            When I call "Willy:"
    I have a wanton kid
    Under my apron hid,
    A colt that ne'er was rid,
            A pretty filly.

    I bear in sign of love
    A sparrow in my glove,
    And in my breast a dove,
            This shall be all thine:
    Besides of sheep a flock,
    Which yieldeth many a lock,
    And this shall be thy stock:
            Come be my valentine!

  [77] Dr. Lancelot Andrewes, Bishop of Winchester, a prelate of rare
  virtue and high ability. This is the best of his poems.



    AS Chloe o'er the meadow past
      I viewed the lovely maid:
    She turned and blushed, renewed her haste,
    And feared by me to be embraced:
      My eyes my wish betrayed.

    I trembling felt the rising flame,
      The charming nymph pursued;
    Daphne was not so bright a game,
    Tho' great Apollo's darling dame,
      Nor with such charms endued.

    I followed close, the fair still flew
      Along the grassy plain;
    The grass at length my rival grew,
    And catched my Chloe by the shoe;
      Her speed was then in vain.

    But, oh! as tottering down she fell,
      What did the fall reveal?
    Such limbs description cannot tell;
    Such charms were never in the Mall,
      Nor smock did e'er conceal.

    She shrieked; I turned my ravished eyes
      And, burning with desire,
    I helped the Queen of Love to rise:
    She checked her anger and surprise,
      And said, "Rash youth, retire;

    "Begone, and boast what you have seen;
      It shan't avail you much:
    I know you like my form and mien,
    Yet since so insolent you've been,
      The Parts disclosed you ne'er shall touch."

From _Poems_. By W[ILLIAM] H[AMMOND], 1655.


    GO, fickle man, and teach the moon to change,
    The winds to vary, the coy bee to range:
    You that despise the conquest of a town
    Rendered without resistance of one frown.

    Is this of easy faith the recompense?
    Is my prone love's too prodigal expense
    Rewarded with disdain? did ever dart
    Rebound from such a penetrable heart?

    Diana, in the service of whose shrine
    Myself to single life I will confine,
    Revenge thy votaress; for unto thee
    The reeling Ocean bends his azure knee.

    And since he loves upon rough seas to ride,
    Grant such an Adria whose swelling tide
    And stormy tongue may his false vessel wrack
    And make the cordage of his heart to crack.


    KNOW, falsest man, as my love was
      Greater than thine or thy desert,
    My scorn shall likewise thine surpass:
      And thus I tear thee from my heart.

    Thou art so far my love below
      That than my anger thou art less;
    I neither love nor quarrel now,
      But pity thy unworthiness.

    Go join, before thou think to wed,
      Thy heart and tongue in wedlock's knot;
    Can peace be reaped from his bed
      Who with himself accordeth not?

    Go learn to weigh thy words upon
      The balance of reality,
    And having that perfection
      Attained, come then and I'll scorn thee.

From _Malone MS._ 13. fol. 53.


    YOUR smiles are not, as other women's be,
      Only the drawing of the mouth awry;
    For breasts and cheeks and forehead we may see,
      Parts wanting motion, all stand smiling by:
    Heaven hath no mouth, and yet is said to smile
                              After your style:
    No more hath earth, yet that smiles too,
                              Just as you do.

    No simpering lips nor looks can breed
    Such smiles as from your face proceed:
    The sun must lend his golden beams,
      Soft winds their breath, green trees their shade,
    Sweet fields their flowers, clear springs their streams,
      Ere such another smile be made:
    But these concurring, we may say
    "So smiles the spring and so smiles lovely May."


  [78] The author of a couple of masques. He was a friend of Carew; and
  is introduced into Suckling's _Session of the Poets_.

From _Harl. MS._ 6918. fol. 92.


    COME, my Clarinda, we'll consume
      Our joys no more at this low rate;
    More glorious titles let's assume
      And love according to our state.

    For if Contentment wears a crown
      Which never tyrant could assail,
    How many monarchs put we down
      In our Utopian commonweal?

    As princes rain down golden showers
      On those in whom they take delight,
    So in this happier court of ours
      Each is the other's favourite.

    Our privacies no eye dwells near,
      But unobserved we embrace;
    And no sleek courtier's pen is there
      To set down either time or place.

    No midnight fears disturb our bliss,
      Unless a golden dream awake us;
    For care we know not what it is,
      Unless to please doth careful make us.

    We fear no enemy's invasion,
      Our counsel's wise and politic;
    With timely force, if not persuasion,
      We cool the homebred schismatic.

    All discontent thus to remove,
      What monarch boasts but thou and I?
    In this content we live and love,
      And in this love resolve to die:

    That when, our souls together fled,
      One urn shall our mix'd dust enshrine,
    In golden numbers may be read
      "Here lie Content's late King and Queen."



    _WITH faith unfeigned and constant heart
      Still worship at Love's shrine:
    Love's votaries ne'er feel any smart,
      Nor at their yoke repine._

    _Your lady kind shall multiply
      Her kisses without measure;
    Your days will slide unclouded by,
      Your nights be crowned with pleasure._

    _Love one, one only: if you stray,
      By random fires beguiled,
    In vain for grace you'll plead and pray,
      From Love's sweet court exiled._

  Chiswick Press


       *       *       *       *       *

  Transcriber's Notes

  Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained
  except in obvious cases of typographical errors.

  In "I HAVE followed thee a year at least" (p107) the first line of the
  last verse ends with "arc". This has been changed to "are"

  A missing footnote anchor [19] has been added to "UNDERNEATH this
  myrtle shade" (p 26).

  Italics are shown thus _italic_.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Speculum Amantis - Love Poems, from Rare Songbooks and Miscellanies of the - Seventeenth Century" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.