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Be what it may the time of day, the place be | O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, where it will,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curSweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before tains fall ; me still.

0, might we live together in a cottage mean and

small, Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the a rock,

only wall ! How clear they are ! how dark they are ! and

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my disthey give me many a shock ;

tress ; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I 'll never a shower,

wish it less; Could ne'er express the charming lip that has the proudest place would fit your face, and I am me in its power.

poor

and low,

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows

may go!

lifted up,

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like

a china cup; Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and

THE POSIE. so fine, It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be in a twine.

seen,

0, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ! The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

sae green: all before ;

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor;

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she and I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, was gay ;

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my

without a peer : heart away!

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phæbus peeps in so complete,

view, The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; feet;

The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her

blue: so much praised,

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I 'll place the lily there;

The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air : And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. sung ; Your smile is always in my heart, your name be- The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o'siller gray, side my tongue.

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o'day; But you've as many sweethearts as you ’d count But the songster's nest within the bush I winna on both your hands,

take away : And for myself there's not a thumb or little

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. finger stands.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star O, you 're the flower of womankind, in country

is near, or in town;

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. sae clear; If some great lord should come this way and see The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to

your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

wear :

Though they deck no princely halls, In bouquets for glittering balls,

My gentle Mary Lee ! Richer hues than painted walls

Will make them dear to thee; For the blue and laughing sky Spreads a grander canopy Than all wealth's golden skill,

My charming Mary Lee ! Love would make them dearer still,

That offers them to thee.

My wreathéd flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,

My bonny Mary Lee !
They may seem as trifles too,

Not, I hope, to thee;
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise ;
None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee;
And can true love wish for more ?
Surely not, Mary Lee !

JOHN CLARE

ANNIE LAURIE.

MAXWELTON braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'il me her promise true,
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be ;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw drift;
Her throat is like the swan ;
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,
That e'er the sun shone on;
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I 'll swear by

a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall

ne'er remove : And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

ROBERT BURNS.

MARY LEE.

I HAVE traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,

My bonny Mary Lee !
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,

Gathered all for thee?
They are not flowers of Pride,
For they graced the dingle-side ;
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile,

My gentle Mary Lee !
Can they fear thy frowns the while

Though offered by me?
Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,

My fairy Mary Lee !
All so spotless and so pale,

Like thine own purity.
And might I make it known,
"T is an emblem of my own
Love, — if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.
Surely flowers can bear no blame,

My bonny Mary Lee.
Here's the violet's modest blue,
That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,

My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee ;
So I've brought the flowers to plead,

And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud ;
Spring's beauty in its hood,

My bonny Mary Lee !
T is the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love ; for I've no power,

My angel Mary Lee,
To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

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LOVE.

LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;
A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so ?
More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho !

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting ;
And Jove hath made it of a kind,
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.

Why so ?
More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho!

SAMUEL DANIEL.

AH! WHAT IS LOVE?

Au ! what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too ;
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest face to frown :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too; For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire :

Ah then, ah then, If country love such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curd as doth the king his meat,

And blither too; For kings have often fears when they sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his beds of down,

More sounder too ;

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill :

Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or syth,

And blither too; For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

ROBERT GREENE.

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE.

When Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear ;
No other wit but hers approve ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy 1 prove ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; —
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;
Tell me, my he

if this be love.

GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON.

ECHOES.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o’er lawns and lakes

Goes answering light !

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; And though the flame be not so great,

Yet is the heat as strong.

EARL OF DORSET.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

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Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win ; This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ;

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ;

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once
you

have come to forty year. Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,

The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,

Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead ! God rest her bier,

How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married ; but I sit here, Alone and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

Bleed away in

Love and Time with reverence use,

Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again. If a flow in age appear, "T is but rain, and runs not clear.

JOHN DRYDEN.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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I thought that morning cloud was blessed, It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,
And join their course, with silent force,

In peace each other greeting;
Calm was their course through banks of green,
While dimpling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat ;
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,

Float on, in joy, to meet
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease,
A purer sky, where all is peace.

JOHN G. C. BRAINAKD.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix forever,

With a sweet emotion ;
Nothing in the world is single ;

All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle :-

Why not I with thine ?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

THOSE EYES.

Ah! do not wanton with those eyes,

Lest I be sick with seeing; Nor cast them down, but let them rise,

Lest shame destroy their being.

Ah! be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me ; Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill ine. Ah! do not steep them in thy tears,

For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distraught with fears, Mine own enough betray me.

BEN JONSON.

Where now I plain
Alas ! in vain,

Lacking my life for liberty.
For without th' one,
Th' other is gone,
And there can none

It remedy ;
If th' one be past,
Th' other doth waste,

And all for lack of liberty.
And so I drive,
As yet alive,
Although I strive

With misery;
Drawing my breath,
Looking for death,

And loss of life for liberty.
But thou that still,
May'st at thy will,
Turn all this ill

Adversity ;
For the repair,
Of my welfare,

Grant me but life and liberty.
And if not so,
Then let all go
To wretched woe,

And let me die;
For th' one or th' other,
There is none other;

My death, or life with liberty.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

JIY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,

There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; My heart in him his thoughts and senses

guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own ;

I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING.

I saw two clouds at morning,

Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on,

and mingled into one ;

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