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When new desires had conquer'd thee,

And ehang'd the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught our piayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice

To see him gain what I have lost.
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee,
To love thee still, but go no more

A-begging at a beggar's door.
From Ritson's “ Caledonian Muse.” Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth,

but his poems belong to English literature.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

JOHN DONNE, born 1573, died 1631.
IF thou beest born to strange sights,

Things invisible to 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 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 lasted till you wrote your letter,

Yet she

Will be
False ere I come to two or three.

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

From "The Forest," a poem by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637. Set as a glee;

composer unknown.

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I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It would not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent it back to me;
Since then it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

STILL TO BE NEAT.

From “ The Forest," by BEN JONSON.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd,
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

ON CELIA SINGING.

THOMAS CAREW, born about 1580, died 1639.

You that think love can convey
No other

way
But through the eyes into the heart

His fatal dart;
Close

up

their casements, and but hear
This syren sing,

And on the wing
Of her sweet voice it shall appear
That love can enter at the ear.

Then unveil your eyes, behold

The curious mould
Where that voice dwells; and as we know

When the cocks crow
We freely may

Gaze on the day,
So may you, when the music's done,
Awake and see the rising sun.

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK.

THOMAS CAREW, 1635. Music by Miss M. B. HAWES.

He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain its fires ;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

a

But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,

Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the climax of the sentiment, as to suggest à doubt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED.

THOMAS CAREW.

GIVE me more love or more disdain ;

The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings 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 Danaë in a golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

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* Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown-gold.

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

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

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too ;
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot,

Then if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate'er she be ! The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of

George Wither's, which immediately follows.

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.

GEORGE WITHER, born 1588, died 1667. From “ The Mistress of Philarete,"

published in 1622. Music by Mr. HENRY PHILLIPS,

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