COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. MERRY Margaret, JOHN SKELTON. '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. SHAKESPEARE. PHILLIS THE FAIR. On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet ! Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringéd all about with gold, That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherd's joy, And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire ? Who would not this saint adore ! Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; Dead men brought to life again. NICHOLAS BRETON Or like the silver crimson shroud Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! Her neck is like a stately tower Heigh-ho, for Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! T. LODGE A VIOLET IN HER HAIR. A violet in her lovely hair, But 0, her eyes That's 'neath the skies. And thus she moves in tender light, Serene, and sweet ; Beneath her feet ! CHARLES SWAIN. WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Love that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, that still looks on your eyes, Though the winter have begun Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, Never, never shall be missing. WILLIAM BROWNE. PORTIA'S PICTURE. FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." Fair Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god hairs SHAKESPEARE. 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 MY JULIA GOES. WHENAS in silks my goes way free O, how that glittering taketh me ! A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both, SHAKESPEARE. R. HERRICK. I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR. I do not love thee for that fair I do not love thee for those flowers 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, As had Penelope the fair ; As it by writing sealed were : The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 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, On your behalf might well be sought, LORD SURREY. I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest away. You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, As if the spring were all your own, So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind ; Tell me, if she were not designed Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine ; Than youth concealed in thine. To their perfection prest, And centred in my breast. SIR HENRY WOTTON. SIR CHARLES SEDLEY, My passion with your beauty grew, While Cupid at my heart Still as his mother favored you Threw a new flaming dart : Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art; To make a beauty, she. A skein of silk without a knot ! WAITING FOR THE GRAPES. 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. mien my Ah me! 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! SONNET. come SHAKESPEARE. CHILD AND MAIDEN. Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit As unconcerned as when No happiness or pain ! 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 eaves Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring. Ah me! |