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MERRY Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower ;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning,
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander ;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower.


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'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence' end, Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven nature charged

That one body should be filled With all graces wide enlarged :

Nature presently distilled Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part,

Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised ; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.



On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet !
By that flower there is a bower

Where the heavenly muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,

Fringéd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy,
She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.

Who would not that face admire ?

Who would not this saint adore !
Who would not this sight desire ?

Though he thought to see no more.

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,

Look upon thy love-sick swain ;
By thy comfort have been seen

Dead men brought to life again.


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Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phæbus' smiling looks doth grace :

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline !
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh-ho, would she were mine !

Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes ;

Heigh-ho, for Rosaline !
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same :

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view :

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires ;
The gods are wounded in her sight ;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine :

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!



A violet in her lovely hair,
A rose upon her bosom fair !

But 0, her eyes
A lovelier violet disclose,
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose

That's 'neath the skies.

And thus she moves in tender light,
The purest ray, where all is bright,

Serene, and sweet ;
And sheds a graceful influence round,
That hallows e'en the very ground

Beneath her feet !



Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring ;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

Love that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still looks on your eyes,

Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,

Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odors of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.





Fair Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips,
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends : Here in her

The painter plays the spider; and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,
Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, -
How could he see to do them ? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnished.


A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command ;

But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth

Can give to song.


WHENAS in silks


Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each

way free O, how that glittering taketh me !

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.


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I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair,
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.

I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks, — love's bowers,
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red.
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.

GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. Give place, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle-light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just

As had Penelope the fair ;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,

As it by writing sealed were :
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint : With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind,

Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain ; “She could not make the like again.” Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,

To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

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I little thought the rising fire

Would take my rest away.

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown?

So when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind ;
By virtue first, then choice, a queen,

Tell me, if she were not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?

Your charms in harmless childhood lay

Like metals in a mine ;
Age from no face takes more away

Than youth concealed in thine.
But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,

And centred in my breast.



My passion with your beauty grew,

While Cupid at my heart

Still as his mother favored you

Threw a new flaming dart :
It was a beauty that I saw,

Each gloried in their wanton part;
So pure, so perfect, as the frame

To make a lover, he
Of all the universe were lame

Employed the utmost of his art;
To that one figure, could I draw,

To make a beauty, she.
Or give least line of it a law :

A skein of silk without a knot !
A fair march made without a halt!
A curious form without a fault !
A printed book without a blot !

All beauty !-- and without a spot.

BEN JONSON. That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand

times have said,

And a thousand times more I have sworn it, WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your TIME.


affection or scorn it.

Ah me!
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

these pretences In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; For rejecting your lover's petitions ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Had I windows in my bosom, O how gladly I'd Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

expose 'em! I see their antique pen would have expressed To undo your fantastic suspicions. Even such a beauty as you master now.

Ah me! So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ;

You repeat I 've known you long, and you hint And, for they looked but with divining eyes,

I do you wrong, They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; In beginning so late to pursue ye ; For we, which now behold these present days, But ’t is folly to look glum because people did not Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.

Ah me!





Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit

As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget

No happiness or pain !
When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day,

In a grapery one walks without looking at the

stalks, While the bunches are green that they 're bear.

ing: All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the


Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring.

Ah me!

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