Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,

To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.

TO HIS MISTRESS,

ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light, -

You common people of the skies,

What are you when the moon shall rise ? You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise ?

On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower there is a bower

Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire ?

Who would not this saint adore ! Who would not this sight desire ?

Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen,

Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen

Dead men brought to life again.

NICHOLAS BRETON

PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.

Phillis is my only joy

Faithless as the wind or seas; Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please.

If with a frown
I am cast down,
Phillis, smiling

And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Though, alas ! too late I find

Nothing cau her fancy fix ;
Yet the moment she is kind

I forgive her all her tricks ;

CONSTANCY.
Out upon it. I have loved

Three whole days together; And am like to love three more,

If it prove fair weather.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!

R. HERRICK

A VIOLET IN HER HAIR.

Madam, alas ! your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived ; for I
A beauty know of richer grace
(Sweet, be not angry), 't is your face.
Hence, then, 0, learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me :
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love,
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty ;
Which, had you once but gazed upon,
You could, except yourself, love none :
What then you cannot love, let me,
That face I can, you cannot see.

Now you have what to love, you 'll say,
What then is left for me, I pray ?
My face, sweet heart, if it please thee;
That which you can, I cannot see :
So either love shall gain his due,
Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

A violet in her lovely hair,
A rose upon her bosom fair !

But 0, her eyes
A lovelier violet disclose,
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose

That's 'neath the skies.

A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command ;

But still her tongue
Far richer music calls to birth
Than all the minstrel power on earth

Can give to song.
And thus she moves in tender light,
The purest ray, where all is bright,

Serene, and sweet ;
And sheds a graceful influence round,
That hallows e'en the very ground

Beneath her feet !

WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring ;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

CHARLES SWAIN.

THE TRIBUTE.

Love, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still looks on your eyes,

Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome

But serves her for fainiliar wear ;
The far-fetched diamond finds its home

Flashing and smouldering in her hair ; For her the seas their pearls reveal ;

Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal,

Ochre, and lapis lazuli ;
The worn its golden woof presents ;

Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments,

Which suit her better than themselves ; And all, hy this their power to give

Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative

To profit so by Eden's blame.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,

Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, me thinks, how sweetly flowes
That liquefaction of her clothes.

THE COMPLIMENT. I do not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair ; Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than the threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which the subtle spider weaves.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view :

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires ;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light :

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine :

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline !
Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were

mine!

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

THOMAS LODGE,

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles

BELINDA.

FROM THE "RAPE OF THE LOCK."

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore,
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those :
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends :
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you 'll forget them all.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

ALEXANDER POPE.

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD.

TO A LADY, WITH SOME PAINTED

FLOWERS. FLOWERS to the fair : to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you ; Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned ; The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, The tougher yew repels invading foes, And the tall pine for future navies grows : But this soft family to cares unknown, Were born for pleasure and delight alone. Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these ; Your best, your sweetest empire is -- to please.

Lo, when the Lord made north and south,

And sun and moon ordained, he,
Forth bringing each by word of mouth

In order of its dignity,
Did man from the crude clay express

By sequence, and, all else decreed,
He formed the woman ; nor might less

Than Sabbath such a work succeed.

And still with favor singled out,

Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout,

Her countenance angelical. No faithless thought her instinct shrouds,

But fancy checkers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds

On noonday's azure permanence.

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD.