About the plea(s)ant mountain's top There grows a lovely thicket, Wherein two beagles trampled, And raised a lively pricket.
They hunted there with pleasant noise About the pleasant mountain, Till he by heat was forced to fly, And skip into the fountain. The beagles followed to the brink, And there at him they barked; He plunged about, but would not shrink; His Coming forth they waited.
Then forth he Came as one half lame, Were weary, faint, and tired; And laid him down betwixt her legs, As help he had required.
The beagles being refresht again,
My Love from sleep bereaved;
She dreamed she had me in her arms,
And she was not deceived.
FROM THE PERCY FOLIO MANUSCRIPT, 1620-50 Do you mean to overthrow me?
Out! alas! I am betrayed!
What! is this the love you show me?
To undo a silly Maid.
Alas! I die! my heart doth break! I dare not cry, I cannot speak! What! all alone? nay then I find Men are too strong for women kind.
Out upon the maid that put me
In this room to be alone!
Yet she was no fool to shut me
Where I should be seen of None.
Hark! Hark! alack! what Noise is that? O, now I see it is the Cat.
Come gentle puss, thou wilt not tell; If all do so thou shalt not tell.
Silly fool! why doubts thou telling Where thou didst not doubt to trust?
If thy belly fall a swelling,
There's no help, but out it must. Alas the spite! alas the shame! For then I quite lose my good name; But yet the worst of Maids disgraced, I am not first nor shall be last.
Once again to try your forces,
Thus I dare thee to the field; Time is lost that time divorces From the pleasures love doth yield. Ah ha! fye, fye! it comes yet still! It comes, I, I do what you will! My breath doth pass, my blood doth trickle? Was ever lass in such a pickle?
My Days, My Months, My Years
FROM JOHN ATTEY'S FIRST BOOK OF AIRS, 1622 My days, my months, my years
I spend about a moment's gain, A joy that in th' enjoying ends, A fury quickly slain;
A frail delight, like that wasp's life Which now both frisks and flies, And in a moment's wanton strife It faints, it pants, it dies.
And when I charge, my lance in rest, I triumph in delight,
And when I have the ring transpierced I languish in despite;
Or like one in a lukewarm bath, Light-wounded in a vein, Spurts out the spirits of his life And fainteth without pain.
Yes, I Could Love If I Could Find
FROM MALONE MS. 16
YES, I could love if I could find A mistress fitting to my mind; Whom neither pride nor gold could move To buy her beauty, sell her love; Were neat, yet cared not to be fine, And loved me for myself, not mine; Were rather comely than too fair, White skinn'd and of a lovely hair; Not ever-blushing, nor too bold; Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold; Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue; Nor puling walk, nor manlike strong; Modestly full of pleasing mirth, Yet close as centre of the earth;
In whom you no passion see
But when she looks or speaks of me; Who calls to bed with melting eyes; As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise: If such a one you chance to find, She is a mistress to my mind.
The Resolution
FROM RAWLINSON MS., POET. 94
NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown; I'll swear you most unjustly frown. I only asked (in vain) to taste What you denied with mighty haste; I asked-but I'm ashamed to tell What 'twas you took so wondrous ill- A kiss. But with a coy disdain You view'd my sighings and my pain: 'Twas but a civil small request, Yet with proud looks and hand on breast, You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd." But case that I had loosed your gown, And then by force had laid you down, And with unruly hands had teased you,- Too justly then I had displeased you. Or had I (big with wanton joys) Engaged you for a brace of boys, Then basely left you full of nature,— This would have been provoking matter. But I, poor harmless civil I,
Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy, And saw denial in your eye;
For with a squeamish glance you cried, "I hate the nauseous bliss."
""Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied, For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
FROM THE ANONYMOUS PLAY ENtitled nero, 1624 (Enter Petronius)
HERE waits Poppaa her Ninphidius' coming, And hath this garden and green walks chose out To bless them with more pleasures than their own. Not only arras hangings and silk beds.
Are guilty of the faults we blame them for: Somewhat these arbours and yon trees do know, Whilst your kind shades you to these night sports show.
Night sports? Faith, they are done in open day And the sun seeth and envieth their play. Hither have I love-sick Antonius brought And thrust him on occasion so long sought; Showed him the empress in a thicket by, Her love's approach waiting with greedy eye; And told him, if he ever meant to prove The doubtful issue of his hopeful love, This is the place and time wherein to try it; Women will hear the suit that will deny it. The suit's not hard that she comes for to take; Who, hot in lust of men, doth difference make? At last forth, willing, to her did he pace: Arm him, Priapus, with thy powerful mace. But see, they coming are; how they agree Here will I harken; shroud me, gentle tree.
The Indifferent
BY JOHN DONNE. from poems, 1633
I CAN love both fair and brown;
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays; Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays; Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town;
Her who believes, and her who tries;
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,
And her who is dry cork, and never cries.
I can love her, and her, and you, and you;
I can love any, so she be not true.
Will no other vice content you?
Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers?
Or have you all old vices spent and now would find out others?
Or doth a fear that men are true torment you?
O we art not, be not you so;
Let me and do you-twenty know;
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.
Must I, who came to travel through you,
Grow your fix'd subject, because you are true?
Break of Day
BY JOHN DONNE
STAY, O sweet, and do not rise
The light that shines comes from thine eyes; The day breaks not, it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die And perish in this infancy.
(ANOTHER OF THE SAME) 'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be? O, wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say, That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
O that's the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
Epithalamion Made at Lincoln's Inn
THE sunbeams in the east are spread; Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;
No more shall you return to it alone; It nurseth sadness, and your body's print, Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint;
You, and your other you, meet there anon.
Put forth, put forth, that warm, balm-breathing thigh, Which when next time you in these sheets will smother, There it must meet another,
Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh. Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came; To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name.
Daughters of London, you which be Our golden mines, and furnish'd treasury;
You which are angels, yet still bring with you Thousands of angels on your marriage days; Help with your presence, and devise to praise These rites, which also unto you grow due; Conceitedly dress her, and be assign'd By you fit place for every flower and jewel. Make her for love fit fuel,
As gay as Flora and as rich as Ind;
So may she, fair and rich, in nothing lame,
To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name.
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