But long in vain did I adore, Long wept and sigh'd in vain ; At last o'ercome she made me blest, But let not this, dear CELIA, now For why, since you forgot your vow, SOAME JENYNS. CORINNA cost me many a prayer, But she ten thousand more should hear Despair I thought the greatest curse; CORINNA'S constancy still worse, Most cruel when too kind. How How blindly then does Cupid carve, How ill divide the joy, Who does at first his lovers starve, TAKE, oh take those lips away Hide, oh hide those hills of snow This sweet and fanciful production of an early age was probably popular at its first appearance, as one stanza of it is given in Shakespear's "Measure for Measure," and both in a play of Beaumont and Fletcher's. It has commonly been attributed to Shakespear, but probably erroneously. SEND home my long-stray'd eyes to me, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still. Send home my harmless heart again, Its word and oath, Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine. Yet send me back my heart and eyes, And laugh and joy one day, when thou For one will scorn, And prove as false as thou dost now.* DONNE (altered). * Donne is so rugged a versifier, that scarcely any of his productions are reducible to regular measure without some alteration. His language, also, is generally far from elegant or refiued, and his thoughts are extremely strained and artificial. The preceding piece, however, has not required much correction to entitle it to a distinguished place among ingenious songs. ON A LADY'S GIRDLE. THAT which her slender waist confined It was my heav'n's extremest sphere, A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Take all the rest the sun goes round. WALLER. Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How fair and sweet she seems to be. Tell Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die; that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, Ir truth can fix thy wavering heart, The pure, the constant flame. WALLER. Tho' |