Part 7
Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I. O that her grace would my wished comforts give! How rich in her, how happy should I live!
All my desire, all my delight should be Her to enjoy, her to unite to me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.
Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"
There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.
Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.
Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.
Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:
Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair, - Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
OF CORINNA'S SINGING
When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I! For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"
Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.
Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.
When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
"KIND ARE HER ANSWERS"
Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favors And smooth words wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by fate prefixed. O, why is the good of man with evil mixed? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
TO CELIA From "The Forest"
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
SONG From "The Forest"
O, 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.
O, 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 me.
O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract with fears; Mine own enough betray me.
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
SONG
Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.
John Donne [1573-1631]
THE MESSAGE
Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they've learned such ill, To sweetly smile, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain: But if it has been taught by thine To forfeit both Its word and oath, Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes, For I'll know all thy falsities; That I one day may laugh, when thou Shalt grieve and mourn - Of one the scorn, Who proves as false as thou art now.
John Donne [1573-1631]
SONG
Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty's but an offensive dart: It is no armor for the heart.
George Etherege [1635?-1691]
TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER
It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?
George Etherege [1635?-1691]
TO AENONE
What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honor thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
THE BRACELET: TO JULIA
Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason is't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bond-slave is my heart: 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO THE WESTERN WIND
Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalmed by me, And all beset with flowers.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS
When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own Inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee: When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostasy.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY
If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED
Give me more love, or more disdain: The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
THE MESSAGE
Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: - Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.
Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]
"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"
At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.
How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.
But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.
But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?
Francis Davison [fl. 1602]
TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA
Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts - For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than in the open field.
In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath! - Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.
William Habington [1605-1654]
TO FLAVIA
'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.
'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find.
No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts: Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field!
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"
Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart: For these may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever. Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.
Unknown
"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"
When, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are, like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrowed lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By their quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!
John Suckling [1609-1642] or Owen Felltham [1602?-1668]
A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM
O for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoyed.
What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?
For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!
John Suckling [1609-1642]
TO CHLOE Who For His Sake Wished Herself Younger
Chloe, why wish you that your years Would backwards run till they meet mine, That perfect likeness, which endears Things unto things, might us combine? Our ages so in date agree, That twins do differ more than we.
There are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awakened sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.
Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.
Love, like that angel that shall call Our bodies from the silent grave, Unto one age doth raise us all; None too much, none too little have; Nay, that the difference may be none, He makes two, not alike, but one.
And now since you and I are such, Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine; So, by this, I as well may be Too old for you, as you for me.
William Cartwright [1611-1643]
"I'll NEVER LOVE THEE MORE"
My dear and only Love, I pray This little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.
But I must rule and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will And all to stand in awe. But 'gainst my batteries if I find Thou kick, or vex me sore, As that thou set me up a blind, I'll never love thee more!
Or in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part And dare to vie with me, Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.
But if thou wilt be faithful, then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Were never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.
James Graham [1612-1650]
TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON
When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free - Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
WHY I LOVE HER
'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me.
Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her. Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.
Alexander Brome [1620-1666]
TO HIS COY MISTRESS
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]
A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY