Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
And greater men than I;
But my true resolvèd mind

They never shall come nigh.

For I not for an hour did love,
Or for a day desire,

But with my soul had from above

This endless holy fire.

Henry Vaughan.

CHLORIS AND HYLAS.

CHLORIS.

YLAS, O Hylas, why sit we mute,

Now that each bird saluteth the spring? Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute, Never can'st thou want matter to sing: For love thy breast doth fill with such a fire, That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYLAS.

Sweetest, you know, the sweetest of things,
Of various flowers the bees do compose,

Yet no particular taste it brings

Of violet, woodbind, pink or rose:

So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.

CHLORIS.

Hylas, the birds which chant in this grove,

Could we but know the language they use,

They would instruct us better in love,

And reprehend thy inconstant muse;

For Love their breasts does fill with such a fire, That what they once do choose bounds their desire.

HYLAS.

Chloris, this change the birds do approve,

Which the warm season hither does bring; Time from yourself does further remove

You than the winter from the gay spring.

She that like light'ning shined while her face lasted, The oak now resembles which light'ning hath blasted. Edmund Waller.

GRATIANA DANCING AND SINGING.

EE! with what constant motion,
Even and glorious as the sun,

Gratiana steers that noble frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voice,
That gave each winding law and poize,
And swifter than the wings of fame.

She beat the happy pavement
By such a star-made firmament,

Which now no more the roof envies;
But swells up high with Atlas even,
Bearing the brighter, nobler heaven,
And in her all the deities.

Each step trod out a lover's thought
And the ambitious hopes he brought,

Chained to her brave feet with such arts,

Such sweet command and gentle awe,
As when she ceased, we sighing saw

The floor lay paved with broken hearts.

So did she move: so did she sing:
Like the harmonious spheres that bring

Unto their rounds their music's aid;
Which she performed such a way,
As all th' enamour'd world will say,
The Graces danced, and Apollo play'd.

Richard Lovelace.

THE DANCE.

EHOLD the brand of beauty tost;

See how the motion does dilate the flame :
Delighted Love his spoils does boast,
And triumph in this game.

Fire, to no place confined,

Is both our wonder and our fear,
Moving the mind

As lightning hurled through the air.

High heaven the glory does increase Of all her shining lamps this artful way; The sun in figures, such as these, Joys with the moon to play.

To the sweet strains they advance Which do result from their own spheres,

As this nymph's dance

Moves with the numbers which she hears.

Edmund Waller.

HOW VIOLETS CAME BLUE.

¡OVE on a day, wise poets tell,

Some time in wrangling spent,
Whether the violets should excel,
Or she, in sweetest scent.

But Venus having lost the day,
Poor girls, she fell on you,

And beat ye so, as some dare say,
Her blows did make ye blue.

Robert Herrick.

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW.

ELL me not of joys, there's none

Now my little sparrow's

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,

gone;

He would chirp and flatter me;
He would hang the wing awhile,
Till at length he saw me smile;
Lord! how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again;
He from my lip
Would moisture sip,

He would from my trencher feed,

Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Philip when he had done;

Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed?

Oh! how

eager

would he fight,

And ne'er hurt though he did bite;

No morn did pass

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark and do
What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall,
And then straightway sleek them too.

Where will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may,

Not love, convey;

Now this faithful bird is gone,

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving redbreasts, and combine

To sing dirges o'er his stone.

William Cartwright.

FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!

Such sights again cannot be found

In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.