My father had a daughter lov'd a

man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a

woman,

I should your lordship.

She

Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord. never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in thought;

And with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

We men may say more, swear more; but indeed

Our shows are more than will; for still we prove

Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too.

And therefore little shall I grace my

cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal,)

I won his daughter with.

Her father loved me, oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life,

From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

Of hairbreadth scapes in the imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history:

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process:

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose

heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders.
These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house affairs would
draw her thence;

Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse: which, I observing,

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,

That I would all my pilgrimage

dilate,

Whereof by parcels she had some

thing heard,

But not intentively: I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore,

- in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used:

Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay: All day the same our postures were, And we said nothing all the day. If any, so by love refined,

That he soul's language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood, He, (though he knew not which soul spoke,

Because both meant, both spoke the same,)

Might thence a new concoction take, And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex,

We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex,

We see, we saw not what did

Thou the fuel, and the flame;
Thou in heaven, and here, the same;
Thou the wooer, and the wooed;
Thou the hunger, and the food;
Thou the prayer, and the prayed;
Thou what is or shall be said.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

ROSALINE.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling Heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whereas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth
grace;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm en-
closes

Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,

Where Nature moulds the dew of light

To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,

ON A GIRDLE.

And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan

The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

SONG.

T. LODGE.

SEE the chariot at hand here of
Love,

Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty,

And enamoured do wish so they might

But enjoy such a sight;

That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas,

whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth:
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth:
Do but mark, her forehead's smooth-

er

Than words that soothe her. And from her arched brows such a grace

Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the element's strife.

Have you seen a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the

snow

Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the Beaver?

Or Swan's down ever?

Or have smelt of the bud of the brier?
Or the Nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is

she!

BEN JONSON.

THAT which her slender waist confined

Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his

crown

His arms might do what this has done.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair:

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the Sun goes round. WALLER.

SONNET.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

SHAKSPEARE.

GENEVIEVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all de

lights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.