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Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on Thee—and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

William Shakespeare

81

HEN in the chronicle of wasted time

WH
W ,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of cye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest

E’en such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

William Shakespeare

82

TO CELIA

DRIN

RINK 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

83

THE POETRY OF DRESS

A

SWEET disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,-
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,—
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat, -
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,-
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick

84 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

TE
Tihet From the nunnery

'ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind

Of thy 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 Honor more.

Richard Lovelace

85

THE BANKS OF RHINE1

THE

'HE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells

Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

1 From a lyrical interlude in the third canto of Cliilde Harold's Pilgrimage.

And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes

And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o’er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray;

And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

Lord Byron

86

TO AUGUSTA 1

1

IN

N the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

Lord Byron

87

MAID OF ATHENS

MAI

AID of Athens, ere we part,

Give, O give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.2

1 From Stanzas to Augusta. 2 My Life, I love thee.

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Lord Byron

88

BRIGHT

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RIGHT star! would I were steadfast as thou art

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient sleepless eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of
pure

ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moorsNo—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,

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