"You wicked, wicked cheat!" she said,
Soon as the injured lips could speak.
Lest he should prove her charge for true,
And seem the most depraved of men,
What should he do, what could he do,
But give her back the kiss again?
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
AMOR OMNIA VINCIT.
HEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself, and curse my fate.
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
WILLIAM SHAKSPERE
H! I remember well (and how can I
But evermore remember well?) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt; when as we sat and sighed
And looked upon each other, and conceived
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail
And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus
In that first garden of our simpleness
We spent our childhood. But when years began
To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then
Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow,
Check my presumption and my forwardness!
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.
SAMUEL DANIEL.
How many new years have grown old
Since first your servant old was new!
How many long hours have I told
Since first my love was vowed to you!
And yet, alas! she doth not know
Whether her servant love or no.
How many walls as white as snow,
And windows clear as any glass,
Have I conjúred to tell you so,
Which faithfully performed was!
And yet you'll swear you do not know
Whether your servant love or no.
How often hath my pale lean face,
With true charácters of my love,
Petitionéd to you for grace,
Whom neither sighs nor tears can move!
O cruel, yet you do not know
Whether your servant love or no?
And wanting oft a better token,
I have been fain to send my heart,
Which now your cold disdain hath broken,
Nor can you heal 't by any art:
O look upon 't and you shall know
Whether your servant love or no.
ROBERT JONES: Elizabethan Song Book.
RITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'T is so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I."
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled Face,
Do your
heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled Face!
"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
"Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken:
Ask some older sage than I."
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
E gather'd blue forget-me-nots, To fling them laughing on her knee. She cried, "Ah, no; if thou canst go,
Ah, love, thou shalt forgotten be!"
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