Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distill'd from thee:
Sorrow's best jewels be in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty,
For she is a Queen!

Then is she dress'd by none but thee,
Then, and only then, she wears

Her richest pearls ;-I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes

When they red with weeping are
For the sun that dies,

Sits Sorrow with a face so fair:

No where but here doth meet,

Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

I NEVER YET COULD SEE THAT FACE.

ABRAHAM COWLEY, born 1618, died 1667.

I NEVER yet could see that face
Which had no dart for me;
From fifteen years to fifty's space,
They all victorious be.

Colour or shape, good limbs, or face,
Goodness, or wit, in all I find;
In motion, or in speech a grace ;-
If all fail, yet 'tis womankind.
If tall, the name of proper stays;
If fair, she's pleasant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night?
The fat, like plenty, fills my heart,

The lean, with love makes me too so;
If straight, her body's Cupid's dart,
To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow.

Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all love's garden and his fields,

And like the wise industrious bee,

No weed, but honey to me yields.

This song is an abridgement of a poem in Cowley's "Mistress," from which several incongruous stanzas and parts of stanzas have been judiciously omitted by the musical composer.

TELL ME NOT SWEET.

By RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658.

TELL me not sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

THE RESOLVE.

ALEXANDER BROME, born 1620, died 1666.

TELL me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she;

The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain:
What fool is he that shadow seeks,
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that's kind,
Else I'm a servant to the glass,
That's with canary lined.

AH! HOW SWEET.

JOHN DRYDEN, born 1631, died 1701.

AH! how sweet it is to love.

Ah! how gay is young desire. And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's fire

Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
E'en the tears they shed alone

Cure like trickling balm, their smart.
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send ;
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again.

If a flow in age appear,

'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

The concluding lines of the first stanza, though possibly unknown to Robert Burns, resemble very closely his much admired lines

"Tis better for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside, Jessie."

FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG.

JOHN DRYDEN.

FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity and distinguish me!

As I, from thousand beauties more
Distingish you, and only you adore.

Your face for conquest was designed;
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.

YE HAPPY SWAINS.

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE, born about 1536, died 1683.

YE happy swains, whose hearts are free
From love's imperial chain,

Take warning and be taught by me
To avoid the enchanting pain;
Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to blossoms prove,
To careless seamen, hidden rocks,
To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex if bliss you prize,

The snake's beneath the flower;
Whoever gazed on beauteous eyes
That tasted quiet more?

How faithless is the lovers' joy!
How constant is their care!
The kind with falsehood to destroy,
The cruel with despair.

CEASE ANXIOUS WORLD.

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.

CEASE anxious world, your fruitless pain, To grasp forbidden store;

Your sturdy labours shall prove vain,

Your alchemy unblest;

Whilst seeds of far more precious ore

Are ripen'd in my breast.