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For crystal brows there's nought within,
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find,
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose,
My earthly comforter ! whose love
So indefeasible might be,
That when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.



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Go, lovely Rose !
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That had'st thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired :

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.


Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair !

20 Edmund Waller.


THE ROSE'S PRIDE. Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee.

Sir Richard Fanshawe.


We saw and wooed each other's eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense,
Profane the temple of delight,
And purchase endless penitence
With the stol'n pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay,
For though the suns do set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day ;

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Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent ;
The troubled stream is still impure ;
With virtue flies away content.

And though opinions often err,
We'll court the modest smile of fame,
For sin's black danger circles her
Who hath infection in her name.


Thus when to one dark silent room
Death shall our loving coffins thrust,
Fame will build columns on our tomb,
And add a perfume to our dust.

William Habington.

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Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joined with Castara hearts : and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increased, but that by love's decree
Twas such at first, it ne'er could greater be.
But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakness ? I since that have seen
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher ;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.

William Habington.





My once dear Love! hapless that I no more
Must call thee so—the rich affection's store
That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.
We, that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give,
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.
Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly heats ; witness that breast,
Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest,
'Tis no default in us, I dare acquite
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envị
Us to each other, and Heaven did untie
Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars !
Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand
What is past help. The longest date of grief
Can never yield a hope of our relief ;
And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,
Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.
Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,
That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves
Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.



In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself,—so thou again art free;
Thou in another, sad as that, resend
The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.
Now turn from each. So fare our severed hearts,
As the divorced soul from her body parts.

Henry King.

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O waly, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn-side,

Where I and my Love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak',

Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie,

A little time while it is new,
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.
Oh! wherefore should I busk my head,

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ?
For my true Love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me,
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true Love's forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle Death ! when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I am wearie.


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