CCVI

ADVICE TO LOVERS.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prythee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?

Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :

The D-1 take her!

Sir John Suckling.

CCVII.

ADVICE TO LOVERS.

TO FLY THE FAIR.

YE happy swains, whose hearts are free
From Love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me,
T'avoid th' enchanting pain.

Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks-
Fierce winds to blossoms prove-
To careless seamen, hidden rocks-
To human quiet, love.

Then fly the fair, if bliss you prize;
The snake's beneath the flower:
Whoever gazed on beauteous eyes,
And tasted quiet more?

How faithless is the lover's joy!

How constant is his care!
The kind with falsehood do destroy,

The cruel with despair.

Sir George Etherege.

CCVIII.

ADVICE TO LOVERS.

CARPE DIEM.

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry :
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick.

CCIX.

A LOVER FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not, Celia, in your power

To say how long our love will last;

It may be we, within this hour,

May lose those joys we now do taste :

The blessed, who immortal be,

From change of love are only free.

Then, since we mortal lovers are,

Ask not how long our love will last;
But while it does, let us take care

Each minute be with pleasure past.
Were it not madness to deny

To love, because we're sure to die?

Fear not; though love and beauty fail,
My reason shall my heart direct :
Your kindness now shall then prevail,
And passion turn into respect.

Celia, at worst, you'll in the end

But change a lover for a friend.

Sir George Etherege.

CCX.

LOVE THE COQUETTE.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her, every lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may

The wandering shepherdess discover.

Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.

William Congreve.

O FAITHLESS world, and thy most faithless part,
A woman's heart!

The true shop of variety, where sits
Nothing but fits

And fevers of desire, and pangs of love,
Which toys remove.

Why was she born to please, or I to trust
Words writ in dust,

Suffering her eyes to govern my despair,
My pain for air,

And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,
The food of youth?

Untrue she was; yet I believed her eyes,
Instructed spies,

Till I was taught, that love was but a school

To breed a fool.

Or sought she more, by triumphs of denial,

To make a trial

How far her smiles commanded my weakness?
Yield, and confess;

Excuse no more thy folly: but, for cure,
Blush and endure

As well thy shame as passions that were vain;
And think 't is gain

To know that Love, lodged in a woman's breast,
Is but a guest.

Sir Henry Wotton.

CCXIII.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

ON WOMAN'S FRAILTY.

IF women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By service long to purchase their good-will;
But when I see how frail those creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford.