Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposéd nature
Joinéd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be ?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

GEORGE WITHER.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove; Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,
You can be no more, you know.

ROBERT BURNS.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

LOVE in my bosom like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :
Ah! wanton, will you?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night;

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays, if I but sing:
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah! wanton, will you?

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin,
Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me!

What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, - Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup

Of my wine I plunged and sank him;

And what d' ye think I did?—I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LOVE AND TIME.

LEIGH HUNT.

Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground.
One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair;
The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair.
The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way;
His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day.
Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,

A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass
To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,
And make the sands more quickly run.

And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin,
And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :

"A week ago, ere you were wed, It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed

"And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead ;
And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed.
Now on our bright predestined way

We must to other regions pass;
But take this gift, and night and day
Look well upon its truthful glass.

"How quick or slow the bright sands fali
Is hid from lovers' eyes alone,

If you can see them move at all,

Be sure your heart has colder grown. "T is coldness makes the glass grow dry, The icy hand, the freezing brow; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh, And then they'll pass you know not how.'