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Their lines into the brook they launch;
He lays his cloak upon a branch,
To guarantee his Lady Blanche

's delicate complexion :
He takes his rapier from his haunch,
That beardless doughty champion staunch;
He'd drill it through the rival's paunch

That question'd his affection !
O heedless pair of sportsmen slack
You never mark, though trout or jack,
Or little foolish stickleback,

Your baited snares may capture.
What care has she for line and hook?
She turns her back upon the brook,
Upon her lover's eyes to look

In sentimental rapture.
O loving pair! as thus I gaze
Upon the girl who smiles always,
The little hand that ever plays

Upon the lover's shoulder;
In looking at your pretty shapes,
A sort of envious wish escapes
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes),

The Poet your beholder.
To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;
With nothing else on earth to do,
But all day long to bill and coo:

It were a pleasant calling.
And had I such a partner sweet;
A tender heart for mine to beat,
A gentle hand my clasp to meet;
I'd let the world flow at my feet,

And never heed its brawling.

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THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

T:

HE rose upon my balcony the morning air

perfuming,

Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek

is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood

ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were

blowing keen. And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have

found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to

dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which

wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason

why.

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS

“Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle

Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle.”

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OME winter night, shut snugly in

Beside the fagot in the hall,

I think I see you sit and spin,
Surrounded by your maidens all.
Old tales are told, old songs are sung,

Old days come back to memory;
You say, “When I was fair and young,

A poet sang of me!”
There's not a maiden in your hall,

Though tired and sleepy ever so,
But wakes, as you my name recall,

And longs the history to know. And, as the piteous tale is said,

Of lady cold and lover true, Each, musing, carries it to bed,

And sighs and envies you !

“Our lady's old and feeble now,”

They 'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,

And heartless left him to despair: The lover lies in silent earth,

No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years !"

Ah ! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,

But wherefore yield me to despair, While yet the poet's bosom glows,

While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 't is time

Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime

The roses of your youth!

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My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast:
She comes
she's here

-she's past — May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturb’d, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

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