A Little Book of
Old Time Verse
Old-fashioned Flowers
Gathered by
Gladys Sidney Crouch
Published by
P. F. Volland Company
NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
Copyright, 1917
P. F. Volland Company
Chicago
To My Father
That the verses in this little book will bring back sweet memories of the long ago to every reader, as they do to me, is the earnest wish of the humble gatherer of these old-fashioned flowers. G. S. C.
CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS
Sir Edward Dyer. (Born 1550—Died 1607.)
[To Phyllis, the Fair Shepherdess]
Sir Philip Sidney. (Born 1554—Died 1586.)
[A Ditty]
John Lyly. (Born 1554—Died 1606.)
[Appelles' Song]
Thomas Lodge. (Born 1556—Died 1625.)
[Love's Wantonness]
Thomas Campion. (Born (unknown)—Died 1619.)
[Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air]
[Come, O come, my life's delight]
Robert Green. (Born 1560—Died 1592.)
[Content]
Christopher Marlowe. (Born 1562—Died 1593.)
[The Passionate Shepherd to His Love]
William Shakespeare. (Born 1564—Died 1616.)
[O Mistress Mine, Where are you Roaming]
Ben Jonson. (Born 1573—Died 1637.)
[To Celia]
John Donne. (Born 1573—Died 1631.)
[Song]
Francis Beaumont. (Born 1584—Died 1610.)
[Fie on Love]
George Wither. (Born 1588—Died 1667.)
[The Author's Resolution in a Sonnet]
Thomas Carew. (Born 1589—Died 1639.)
[Song]
[A Fragment]
[Truce in Love Entreate]d
[Phillida Flouts Me]
Robert Herrick. (Born 1591—Died 1674.)
[A Hymn to Love]
[To Anthea]
[To Daffodils]
[To Electra]
[To his Mistress]
[To his Mistress, Objecting to his Neither Toying nor Talking]
[To the Virgins, to make much of Time]
Henry King. (Born 1592—Died 1669.)
[On the Life of Man]
Thomas Bateson. (Born 1600—Died (no record).)
[Her hair the net of golden wire]
Sir William D'Avenant. (Born 1605—Died 1668.)
[The Lark now Leaves his Watr'y Nest]
Edmund Waller. (Born 1605—Died 1687.)
[Song: Go Lovely Rose]
[Song to Flavia]
Sir John Suckling. (Born 1609—Died 1641.)
[Why so pale and wan, fond lover]
[Song: O pr'y thee send me back my heart]
[The Constant Lover]
Richard Lovelace. (Born 1618—Died 1658.)
[Stone walls do not a prison make]
[To Althea, from Prison]
[To Lucasta, on going to the wars]
Thomas Stanley. (Born 1625—Died 1678.)
[Speaking and Kissing]
Walter Porter. (Born (no record)—Died 1649.)
[Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise]
George Granville (Lord Lansdowne). (Born 1668—Died 1735.)
[Adieu L'Amour]
William Congreve. (Born 1672—Died 1728.)
[Song: Though she be false to me and love]
John Oldmixon. (Born 1673—Died 1742.)
[Song: I lately vowed but 'twas in haste]
Dr. Isaac Watts. (Born 1674—Died 1748.)
[Few Happy Matches]
Aaron Hill. (Born 1684—Died 1749.)
[Song: Gentle love, this hour befriend me]
William Somerville. (Born 1692—Died 1742.)
[Cupid Mistaken]
[Song: Hard is the fate of him who loves]
[To a discarded toast]
Thomas Walker. (Born 1698—Died 1743.)
[Sweet love, I will no more abuse thee]
James Thomson. (Born 1700—Died 1748.)
[Unless with my Amanda blest]
George Lyttleton. (Born 1709—Died 1773.)
[Song: When Delia on the plain appear]
Edward Moore. (Born 1711—Died 1757.)
[Song: How blest has my time been]
John Wilke. (Born 1727—Died 1797.)
[Love not me for comely grace]
Robert Burns. (Born 1759—Died 1796.)
[Delia]
[My Jean]
[Of A' the Airts the Wind Can Blaw]
[The Bonnie Wee Thing]
Sir Walter Scott. (Born 1771—Died 1832.)
[The Truth of Woman]
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. (Born 1772—Died 1834.)
[Names]
Walter Savage Landor. (Born 1775—Died 1864.)
[The Maid I love ne'er thought of me]
William Stanley Roscoe. (Born 1782—Died 1841.)
[To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam]
Leigh Hunt. (Born 1784—Died 1859.)
[Jenny Kissed Me]
[The Nun]
Bryan Waller Proctor. (Born 1787—Died 1874.)
[Hermione]
George Gordon (Lord Byron). (Born 1788—Died 1824.)
[There be none of Beauty's daughters]
William Cullen-Bryant. (Born 1794—Died 1878.)
[The Forest Maid]
George Darley. (Born 1795—Died 1846.)
[Love's Likeness]
Hartley Coleridge. (Born 1796—Died 1849.)
[Song: She is not fair to outward view]
[To a lofty beauty, from her poor kinsman]
Thomas Hood. (Born 1798—Died 1845.)
[Time of Roses]
Sir Henry Taylor. (Born 1800—Died 1886.)
[Song: The bee to the heather]
Ralph Waldo Emerson. (Born 1803—Died 1882.)
[Days]
James Clarence Mangan. (Born 1803—Died 1849.)
[Advice against travel]
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. (Born 1806—Died 1861.)
[My Kate]
[Grief]
John Greenleaf Whittier. (Born 1807—Died 1892.)
[Memories]
[All's Well]
Oliver Wendell Holmes. (Born 1809—Died 1894.)
[There is no friend like an old friend]
Robert Jones. (Born 1809—Died 1879.)
[Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow]
Alfred Tennyson. (Born 1809—Died 1892.)
[Song from 'The Princess']
Edgar Allan Poe. (Born 1809—Died 1849.)
[To Helen]
Frances Anne Kemble. (Born 1809—Died 1893.)
[Faith]
John Stuart Blackie. (Born 1809—Died 1895.)
[My Loves]
Robert Browning. (Born 1812—Died 1889.)
[Home-Thoughts from Abroad]
Philip James Bailey. (Born 1816—Died 1902.)
[My Lady]
Henry David Thoreau. (Born 1817—Died 1862.)
[Love]
John Ruskin. (Born 1819—Died 1900.)
[Trust thou thy love]
Francis Turner Palgrave. (Born 1823—Died 1897.)
[Eutopia]
William Caldwell Roscoe. (Born 1823—Died 1859.)
[Spiritual Love]
George Meredith. (Born 1828—Died 1909.)
[Lucifer in Starlight]
[Woman]
[Love in the Valley]
Richard Garnett. (Born 1835—Died 1906.)
[The Fair Circassian]
Matilda Betham Edwards. (Born 1836.)
[A Valentine]
Christina Georgina Rossetti. (Born 1839—Died 1894.)
[A Birthday]
[Remember]
John Addington Symonds. (Born 1840—Died 1893.)
[Farewell]
Austin Dobson. (Born 1840.)
[On a fan that belonged to the Marquis de Pompadour]
[A Rondeau to Ethel]
Thomas Hardy. (Born 1840.)
[The Darkling Thrush]
Frederic William Henry Myers. (Born 1843—Died 1901.)
[Evanescence]
Robert Louis Stevenson. (Born 1850—Died 1894.)
[Wishes]
[Romance]
Francis William Bourdillon. (Born 1852.)
[A Violinist]
Edward Cracroft Lefroy. (Born 1855—Died 1891.)
[Ageanax]
[A Summer in Old Sicily]
Douglas Brook Wheelton Sladen. (Born 1856.)
[Under the Wattle]
William Sharp. (Born 1856—Died 1902.)
[On a nightingale in April]
Agnes Mary Frances Duclaux. (Born 1857.)
[Then, when all the feasting's done]
Arthur Symons. (Born 1865.)
[Rain on the Down]
William Butler Yeats. (Born 1865.)
[Down by the Sally Gardens]
[When you are Old]
Richard LeGallienne. (Born 1866.)
[Song: She's somewhere in the sunlight strong]
Alfred Noyes. (Born 1880.)
[A Japanese Love Song]
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
[Better trust all, and be deceived]
[Bid me to live, and I will live]
[Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing]
[Celia, confess, 'tis all in vain]
[Chicken skin, delicate, white]
[Choose me your Valentine]
[Come live with me, and be my love]
[Come, O come, my life's delight]
[Cupid and my Campaspe played]
[Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days]
[Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine]
[Down by the sally gardens]
[Drink to me only with thine eyes]
[Fair daffodils, we weep to see]
[Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries]
[Fair the face of orient day]
[False though she be to me and love]
[Forty Viziers saw I go]
[Gather ye rosebuds while ye may]
[Gentle love, this hour befriend me]
[Gods, what a sun! I think the world's aglow]
[Go little book, and wish to all]
[Go, lovely rose]
[Hard is the fate of him who loves]
[Helen, thy beauty is to me]
[Here end my chains, and thraldom cease]
[Her hair, the net of golden wire]
[He that loves a rosy cheek]
[How blest has my time been, what days have I known,]
[I asked my fair, one happy day]
[I dare not ask a kiss]
[If the quick spirits in your eye]
[If you become a nun, dear]
[I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste]
[I leant upon a coppice gate]
[I loved her for that she was beautiful]
["In tea-cup times!" The style of dress]
[I pr'y thee send me back my heart]
[I see her in the dewy flowers]
[I saw, I saw the lovely child]
[I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless]
[It is buried and done with]
[It was not in the winter]
[I will confess with cheerfulness]
[I will make your brooches and toys for your delight]
[Like to the falling of the star]
[Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise]
[Love guides the roses of thy lips]
[Love not me for comely grace]
[Maidens kilt your skirts and go]
[My heart is like a singing bird]
[My little pretty one]
[My Phyllis hath the morning sun]
[My true love hath my heart and I have his]
[Name the leaves on all the trees]
[Night and the down by the sea]
[No more blind god! for see, my heart]
[No show of bolts and bars]
[Now fie on foolish love, it not befits]
[Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white]
[O fairest of the rural maids!]
[O mark yon Rose-tree! When the West]
[O, Mistress mine, where are you roaming]
[O, to be in England]
[Oh thou that from the green vales of the West]
[Oh, what a plague is love!]
[On a starr'd night. Prince Lucifer uprose]
[Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow]
[Out upon it, I have loved]
[Over the mountains]
[Remember me when I am gone away]
[Say, mighty love, and teach my song]
[Send home my long stray'd eyes to me]
[Shall I, wasting in despaire]
[She can be as wise as we]
[She is not fair to outward view]
[She's somewhere in the sunlight strong]
[She was not as pretty as women I know]
[Stone walls do not a prison make]
[Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content]
[Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind]
[The air which thy smooth voice doth break]
[The bee to the heather]
[The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake]
[The lark above our heads doth know]
[The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest]
[The Maid I love ne'er thought of me]
[The yellow moon is a dancing phantom]
[The young moon is white]
[There be none of beauty's daughters]
[There is a garden where lilies]
[There is no friend like an old friend]
[Though cruel fate should bid us part]
[Thou hast beauty bright and fair]
[Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air]
['Tis not your beauty can engage]
[Traverse not the globe for lore!]
[Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?]
[Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward]
[Unless with my Amanda blest]
[Venus whipt Cupid t'other day]
[Were the gray clouds not made]
[What care I tho' beauty fading]
[What shall I send my love today]
[When Delia on the plain appears]
[When love, with unconfined wings]
[When you are old and gray and full of sleep]
[Why should not the wattle do?]
[Why so pale and wan, fond lover?]
[Woman's faith, and woman's trust—]
[You say I love not, 'cause I do not play]
A LITTLE BOOK OF OLD TIME VERSE
Love's Wantonness
Love guides the roses of thy lips,
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shrine,
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
—Thomas Lodge
Song
Send home my long-stray'd eyes to me,
Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee:
But if from you they've learnt 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.
—John Donne, D.D.
Fie on Love
Now fie on foolish love, it not befits
Or man or woman know it.
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw, and features in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain:
If simple love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.
—Francis Beaumont
A Fragment
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
—Thomas Carew
Truce in Love Entreated
No more, blind god! for see, my heart
Is made thy quiver, there remains
No void place, for another dart;
And, alas! that conquest gains
Small praise, that only brings away
A tame and unresisting prey.
Behold a nobler foe, all arm'd,
Defies thy weak artillery,
That hath thy bow and quiver charm'd;
A rebel beauty, conquering thee:
If thou dar'st equal combat try,
Wound her, for 'tis for her I die.
—Thomas Carew
Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.
—Leigh Hunt
A Ditty
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for 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 thought 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 Phillip Sidney
To Electra
I dare not ask a kiss;
I dare not beg a smile;
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.
No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be,
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee.
—Robert Herrick
To Phyllis, the Fair Shepherdess
My Phyllis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her:
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds
Her rising still to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers
That smile when she treads on them:
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,
Alas, that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert
Nor peace to those that crave it.
Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,
Pray her regard my moan!
Sweet birds, when you sing to her.
To yield some pity woo her!
Sweet flowers, that she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty dreads one;
And if in life her love she'll not agree me.
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
—Sir Edward Dyer
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies:
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me and be my love.
—Christopher Marlowe
Content
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,
The quiet mind is richer than a crown,
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown;
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princess oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
—Robert Greene
My Jean
Though cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
—Robert Burns
Sweet Love, I will no more abuse thee,
Nor with my voice accuse thee;
But tune my notes unto thy praise,
And tell the world Love ne'er decays.
Sweet Love doth concord ever cherish:
What wanteth concord soon must perish.
—Thomas Walker
To Celia
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 honouring 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
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 dote upon me ever.
—John Wilkye
To His Mistress
Choose me your Valentine;
Next, let us marry;
Love to the death will pine
If we long tarry.
Promise and keep your vows.
Or vow ye never;
Love's doctrine disallows
Troth-breakers ever.
You have broke promise twice,
Dear, to undo me;
If you prove faithless thrice,
None then will woo ye.
—Robert Herrick
The Author's Resolution in a Sonnet
Shall I, wasting in despaire
Dye, because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
Cause anothers Rosie are?
Be she fairer than the Day
Or the flowry Meads in May,
If she thinke not well of me,
What care I how faire she be?
Shall a woman's Vertues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deservings knowne
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 fortunes seem too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a Noble mind,
If not outward helpes she find,
Think that with them he wold do,
That without them dares her woe.
And unlesse that Minde I see
What care I how great she be?
Great, or Good, or Kind, or Faire,
I will ne're the more despaire:
If she love me (this believe)
I will Die ere she shall grieve,
If she slight me when I woe,
I can scorne and let her goe,
For if she be not for me
What care I for whom she be?
—George Wither
Song
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If ev'ry sweet and ev'ry 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
Love Will Find the Way
Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under the floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over the rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter
And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confin'd,
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close you wall him,
Do the best that you may;
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The Phoenix of the East;
The lioness, you may move her
To give o'er her prey;
But you will ne'er stop a lover—
He will find out his way.
—Unknown
To Daffodils
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the lasting day
Has run
But to the evensong
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
—Robert Herrick
Phillida Flouts Me
Oh, what a plague is love!
I cannot bear it.
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it;
It so torments my mind,
That my heart faileth.
She wavers with the wind,
As a ship saileth;
Please her the best I may,
She looks another way;
Alack and well a-day!
Phillida flouts me.
I often heard her say
That she loved posies;
In the last month of May
I gave her roses,
Cowslips and gilly flow'rs
And the sweet lily,
I got to deck the bow'rs
Of my dear Philly;
She did them all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore, 'tis flat and plain
Phillida flouts me.
Which way, soe'er I go.
She still torments me;
And whatso'er I do,
Nothing contents me:
I fade, and pine away
With grief and sorrow;
I fall quite to decay,
Like any shadow;
Since 'twill no better be,
I'll bear it patiently;
Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.
—Thomas Carew
Song 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
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
This cannot take her.
If for herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
—Sir John Suckling
Unless with my Amanda blest,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year,
In vain the birds around me sing;
In vain the freshening fields appear:
Without my love there is no Spring.
—James Thomson
Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow,
As passion did them move,
Once did I hope, straight fear again,—
And then I was in love.
Once did I waking spend the night,
And tell how many minutes move,
Once did I wishing waste the day,—
And then I was in love.
Once, by my carving true love's knot,
The weeping trees did prove
That wounds and tears were both our lot,—
And then I was in love.
Once did I breathe another's breath,
And in my mistress move,
Once was I not mine own at all,—
And then I was in love.
Once wore I bracelets made of hair,
And collars did approve,
Once wore my clothes made out of wax,—
And then I was in love.
Once did I sonnet to my saint,
My soul in numbers move,
Once did I tell a thousand lies,—
And then I was in love.
Once in my ear did dangling hang
A little turtle-dove,
Once, in a word, I was a fool,—
And then I was in love.
—Robert Jones
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time.
And while ye may go marry:
For having lost but once your prime
You may forever tarry.
—Robert Herrick
My Kate
She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to naught in the long-trodden ways,
While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days—
My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face:
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—
My Kate.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke:
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Tho' the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—
My Kate.
I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer
Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her—
My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as thro' the whole town
The children were gladder that pull'd at her gown—
My Kate.
None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all:
If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant.
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went—
My Kate.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her—see what you have!
She has made the grass greener even here with her grave—
My Kate.
My dear one!—When thou wast alive with the rest,
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best:
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart—
My Kate?
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
There is no friend like an old friend
Who has shared our morning days,
No greeting like his welcome,
No homage like his praise.
Fame is the scentless sunflower,
With gaudy crown of gold;
But friendship is the breathing rose
With sweets in every fold.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes
Grief
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud excess
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In soul as countries lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Love
Totus est Inermis Idem...
No show of bolts and bars
Can keep the foeman out,
Or 'scape his secret mine
Who enter'd with the doubt
That drew the line.
No warder at the gate
Can let the friendly in;
But, like the sun, o'er all
He will the castle win,
And shine along the wall.
Implacable is Love—
Foes may be bought or teased
From their hostile intent,
But he goes unappeased
Who is on kindness bent.
—Henry David Thoreau
Trust Thou Thy Love
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.
—John Ruskin
Spiritual Love
What care I tho' beauty fading
Die ere Time can turn his glass?
What tho' locks the Graces braiding
Perish like the summer grass?
Tho' thy charms should all decay,
Think not my affections may!
For thy charms—tho' bright as morning—
Captured not my idle heart;
Love so grounded ends in scorning,
Lacks the barb to hold the dart.
My devotion more secure
Woos thy spirit high and pure.
—William Caldwell Roscoe
Woman
She can be as wise as we
And wiser when she wishes;
She can knit with cunning wit,
And dress the homely dishes,
She can flourish staff or pen,
And deal a wound that lingers;
She can talk the talk of men,
And touch with thrilling fingers.
—George Meredith
To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam
O Thou that from the green vales of the West
Com'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet,
And to the gathering clouds
Liftest thy soft blue eye:
I woo thee. Spring!—Tho' thy dishevell'd hair
In misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast,
And thy young lips deplore
Stern Boreas' ruthless rage:
While morn is stee'd in dews, and the dank show'r
Drops from the green boughs of the budding trees;
And the thrush tunes his song
Warbling with unripe throat:
Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oak
I follow thee, and see thy hands unfold
The love-sick primrose pale
And moist-eyed violet:
While in the central grove, at thy soft voice,
The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells,
And from their oozy waves
The Naiads lift their heads
In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leaves
And water-blossoms from the forest stream,
To pay their vows to thee,
Their thrice adored queen!
The stripling shepherd wand'ring thro' the wood
Startles the linnet from her downy nest,
Or wreathes his crook with flowers,
The sweetest of the fields.
From the grey branches of the ivied ash
The stock-dove pours her vernal elegy,
While further down the vale
Echoes the cuckoo's note.
Beneath this trellis'd arbour's antique roof,
When the wild laurel rustles in the breeze,
By Cam's slow murmuring stream
I waste the live-long day;
And bid thee. Spring, rule fair the infant year,
Till my loved Maid in russet stole approach:
O yield her to my arms,
Her red lips breathing love!
So shall the sweet May drink thy falling tears,
And on thy blue eyes pour a beam of joy;
And float thy azure locks
Upon the western wind.
So shall the nightingale rejoice thy woods,
And Hesper early light his dewy star;
And oft at eventide
Beneath the rising moon.
May lovers' whispers soothe thy list'ning ear,
And as they steal the soft impassion'd kiss,
Confess thy genial reign,
O love-inspiring Spring!
—William Stanley Roscoe
I pr'y thee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie;
To find it were in vain,
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
O love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts you sever?
But love is such a mystery
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am most in doubt.
Then farewell love, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.
—Sir John Suckling
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
Appelles' Song
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses,—Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and teams of sparrows:
Loses them, too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise;
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
—John Lyly
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 fetter'd to her eye—
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.
—Richard Lovelace
On the Life of Man
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like the wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid tonight
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.
—Henry King
Of A' the Airts the Wind Can Blaw
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
—Robert Burns
O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming?
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in Lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter:
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
—Shakespeare
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,
Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,
And murmur soft, "She will or she will not."
Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech owls' feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,
That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.
—Thomas Campion
Come, O come, my life's delight!
Let me not in languor pine!
Love loves no delay; thy sight
The more enjoyed, the more divine!
O come, and take from me
The pain of being deprived of thee!
Thou all sweetness dost enclose,
Like a little world of bliss;
Beauty guards thy looks, the rose
In them pure and eternal is:
Come, then, and make thy flight
As swift to me as heavenly light!
—Thomas Campion
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seem'd to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, quant, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume.
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
—Thomas Hardy
To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of your chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more!
—Richard Lovelace
A Japanese Love Song
The young moon is white,
But the willows are blue:
Your small lips are red,
But the great clouds are gray:
The waves are so many
That whisper to you;
But my love is only
One flight of spray.
The bright drops are many,
The dark wave is one:
The dark wave subsides,
And the bright sea remains!
And wherever, O singing
Maid, you may run,
You are one with the world
For all your pains.
Tho' the great skies are dark,
And your small feet are white,
Tho' your wide eyes are blue
And the closed poppies red,
Tho' the kisses are many,
That colour the night,
They are linked like pearls
On one golden thread.
Were the gray clouds not made
For the red of your mouth;
The ages for flight
Of the butterfly years;
The sweet of the peach
For the pale lips of drouth,
The sunlight of smiles
For the shadow of tears?