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She that bears a n.o.ble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
George Wither [1588-1667]
HIS FURTHER RESOLUTION
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-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, and 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!
Were her hands as rich a prize As her hair or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners' sake!
And let every lover slip From her hand unto her lip!
If she seem 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 s...o...b..a.l.l.s 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!
Unknown
SONG From "Britannia's Pastorals"
Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be a.s.sured 'tis she or none, That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart: So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.
Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth, Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.
Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhat young; Be a.s.sured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
TO DIANEME
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown.
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, s.h.i.+n'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrapped Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
DISDAIN RETURNED
He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his 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.
No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have searched thy soul within, And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou.
Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
"LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE"
Love who will, for I'll love none, There's fools enough beside me: Yet if each woman have not one, Come to me where I hide me, And if she can the place attain, For once I'll be her fool again.
It is an easy place to find, And women sure should know it; Yet thither serves not every wind, Nor many men can show it: It is the storehouse, where doth lie All woman's truth and constancy.
If the journey be so long, No woman will adventer; But dreading her weak vessel's wrong, The voyage will not enter: Then may she sigh and lie alone, In love with all, yet loved of none.
William Browne [1591-1643]
