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HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear; As idle sounds, of few or none are sougbt; I saw myself with many a smiling line That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, I know frail beauty 's like the purple flower While those fair planets on thy streams did To which one morn oft birth and death af shine;

fords, The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; That love a jarring is of mind's accords, While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Where sense and will bring under reason's Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair

power: They did themselves, ob sweetest prison! Know what I list, this all cannot me move, twine;

But that, alas! I both must write and love. And fain those Eol's youth there would their

WILLIAX DRUMMOND. stay Have made, but forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She so dishevelled, blashed:- from window I, With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace!

Let honor's self to thee grant highest place.

If it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,

Such I believe my love; for as in her With how sad steps, 0 Moon thou climb'st So fair, in whom I all besides forget, the skies

I view the gentle work of her creator, How silently, and with how wan a face!

I have no care for any other thing, What! may it be, that even in heavenly Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous, place

Since the effect is not of my own power, That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth, Sare, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Enamored through the eyes,
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case

Repose upon


eyes which it resembleth, I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace;

And through them riseth to the Primal Love, To me that feel the like thy state descries.

As to its end, and honors in admiring; Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me-

For who adores the Maker needs must love Is constant love deemed there but want of

His work. wit?

MICHAEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Translation of J. E. TAYLOR,
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth

possess ?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ?


YES! hope may with my strong desire keep

pace, SONNET.

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace I kxow that all beneath the moon decays; In sight of heaven, then wherefore bath God And what by mortals in this world is brought, made In tiine's great periods shall return to nought; | The world which we inhabit? Better plea That fairest states have fatal nights and days. Love cannot have, than that in loving thee I know that all the muses' heavenly lays, Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle | Through sorrow's trick. I thought the fuhearts.

neral shearg His hope is treacherous only whose love dies Would take this first, but love is justified, With beauty, which is varying every hour : Take it thou, -finding pure, from all those But in chaste 'hearts, uninfluenced by the years, power

The kiss my mother left there when she dieci Of outward change, there blooms a deathless

flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

MICHAEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Say over again, and yet once over again, Translation of WILLIAN WORDSWORTH.

That thou dost love me. Though the word

repeated Should seem

a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,

Remember, never to the hill or plain, SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain,

Comes the fresh spring in all her green comIF thou must love me, let it be for nought

pleted. Except for love's sake only. Do not say “I love her for her smile, her look, her Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's way

pain Of speaking gently,- for a trick of thought

Cry: "Speak once more—thou lovest!" That falls in well with mine, and certes

Who can fear brought

Too many stars, though each in heaven sha!! A sense of pleasant ease on such a day.”

roll— For these things in themselves, beloved, may

Too many flowers, though each shall crown Be changed, or change for thee, -and love so

the year? wrought,

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

toll Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks

The silver iterance !-only minding, dear,

To love me also in silence, with thy soul.
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby.
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss

That comes to each in turn, nor count it
I NEVER gave a lock of hair away

To a man dearest, except this to thee, When I took up, to drop on a new range
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully Of walls and floors-another home than
I ring out to the full brown length, and say,

“ Take it!” My day of youth went yesterday; Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, Filled by dead eyes too tender to know
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,

change? As girls do, any more. It only may

That 's hardest. If to conquer love has tried, Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of To conquer grief tries more, as all thing tears,

prove; Tanght drooping from the head that hangs For grief indeed is love and grief beside. aside

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to Jove.

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Yet love me—wilt thou ? Open thine heart

wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.


In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troupe of damsells playing,
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying;

Where anon by a wood side,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.

FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and

white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its

"O list!" When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second passed in

height The first, and sought the forehead, and half

missed, Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's

own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said, “My love, my


Much adoe there was, God wot; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayd never inan was trewe; He sayes none was false to you.

He sayde hee had lorde her longe ;
She sayes love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then;
She sayes maids must kisse no men,

Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never loved a truer youthe.

Then with many a prettie othe,
Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe
Such as seelie shepperdog use
When they will not love abuse-

Love, that had bene long deluded,
Was with kisses sweete concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gaye
Was made the ladye of the Maye.


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and

height My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's

faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the

breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God

choose, I shal. but love thee better after death.



Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;
A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries


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For this beauty still doth hide DISCOURSE WITH CUPID.

Something more than thou hast spied.

Outward grace weak Love beguiles : NOBLEST Charis, you that are

She is Venus when she smiles, Both my fortune and my star!

But she's Juno when she walks,
And do govern more my blood,

And Minerva when she talks."
Than the various moon the flood !
Hear what lato discourse of you

Love and I have had ; and true.
'Mongst my muses finding me,
Where he chanced your name to see

Set, and to this softer strain :
“Sure,” said he, “if I have brain, DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
This here sung can be no other

And I will pledge with mine;
By description, but my mother!

Or leave a kiss but in the cup, So hath Homer praised her hair ;

And I'll not look for wine. So Anacreon drawn the air

The thirst that from the soul doth rise Of her face, and made to rise,

Doth ask a drink divine ; Just about her sparkling eyes,

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
Both her brows, bent like my how.

I would not change for thine.
By her looks I do her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see ! I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Such my mother's blushes be,

Not so much honoring thee,
As the bath your verse discloses

As giving it a hope that there In her cheeks of milk and roses ;

It could not withered be. Such as oft I wanton in.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe, And above her even chin,

And sent'st it back to me; Have you placed the bank of kisses Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, Where, you say, men gather blisses,

Not of itself, but thee. Ripened with a breath more sweet,

Than when flowers and west winds meet. Translation of BEN JONBON.
Nay, her white and polished neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain !

And between each rising breast
Lies the valley called my nest,

CUPID and my Campaspe played
Where I sit and proyne my wings At cards for kisses-Cupid paid;
After flight; and put new strings He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
To my shafts! Her very name, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows
With my mother's is the same.” Loses them too; then down he throws
“I confess all,” I replied,

The coral of his lip, the rose " And the glass hangs by her side, Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how); And the girdle 'bout her waist, With these the crystal of his brow, All is Venus; save unchaste.

And then the dimple of his chin; But, alas! thou seest the least

All these did my Campaspe win.
Įf her good, who is the best

At last he set her both his eyes;
Of her sex; but couldst thou, Love, She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
Call to mind the forms that strove O Love! has she done this to thee?
For the apple, and those three

What shall, alas! become of me?
Make in one, the same were she.

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