When new desires had conquer'd thee,
And changed the object of thy will;
It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go

And prostitute affection so;

Since we are taught our prayers to say,
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,

To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee,
To love thee still, but go no more,

A begging at a beggar's door.

From Ritson's "Caledonian Muse "-Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth but his poems belong to English literature.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

JOHN DONNE, born 1573, died 1631.

If thou beest born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights

Till age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return'st wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

No where,

Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find one let me know,

Such a pilgrimage were sweet,

Yet do not! I would not go,

Though at next door, we might meet;
Though she were true when you met her,
And lasted till you wrote your letter,

Yet she,

Will be,

False ere I come, to two or three.

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

From "The Forest," by BEN JONSON, born 1574, died 1637.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from my soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It would not wither'd be,

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;

Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

STILL TO BE NEAT.

From "The Forest," by BEN JONSON.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed,
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Tho' art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

ON CELIA SINGING.

THOMAS CAREW, born about 1580, died 1639.

You that think love can convey,
No other way

But through the eyes, into the heart
His fatal dart;

Close up those casements, and but hear

This syren sing,

And on the wing

Of her sweet voice it shall appear
That love can enter at the ear.

Then unveil your eyes, behold

The curious mould

Where that voice dwells; and as we know
When the cocks crow,

We freely may

Gaze on the day;

So may you when the music's done,
Awake and see the rising sun.

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK.

THOMAS CAREW.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain its fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined
Kindle never dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the climax of the sentiment, as to suggest a doubt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED.

THOMAS CAREw.

GIVE me more love, or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone,
Brings equal ease unto my pain;

The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love, or hate.
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,

Like Danae in a golden shower I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes; and he's possessed

Of Heaven, that's cut from hell releas'd; Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain.

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL?

Attributed to SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

SHALL I like a hermit dwell,
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold1

If a stranger may be bold
Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too;

If the mine be grown so free
What care I how rich it be?

1 Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold.

Where her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she be not chaste to me

What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;

Then if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate'er she be!

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of Georg Wither's, which immediately follows.

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.

GEORGE WITHER, born 1588, died 1667.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined

'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be ?