Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,

Gathered all for thee?

They are not flowers of Pride,
For they graced the dingle-side;
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile,
My gentle Mary Lee!

Can they fear thy frowns the while
Though offeréd by me?

Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,
My fairy Mary Lee!
All so spotless and so pale,
Like thine own purity.
And might I make it known,
'T is an emblem of my own
Love, if I dare so name
My esteem for thee.
Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee.

Here's the violet's modest blue,
That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,

My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,
While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;
So I've brought the flowers to plead,
And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,
My bonny Mary Lee!
'Tis the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel Mary Lee,
To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

Will make them dear to thee;

For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy
Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee!
Love would make them dearer still,
That offers them to thee.

My wreathéd flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee !
They may seem as trifles too,
Not, I hope, to thee;
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise;
None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee!

ANNIE LAURIE.

JOHN CLARE.

MAXWELTON braes are bonnie
Where early fa's the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'd me her promise true,
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw drift;
Her throat is like the swan;
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,
That e'er the sun shone on;
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like the winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet,
Her voice is low and sweet;
And she's a' the world to me;

And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay me doune and dee.

ANONYMOUS

LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so ?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind,

Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so ?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

SAMUEL DANIEL.

AH! WHAT IS LOVE?

AH! what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too;

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest face to frown:

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

His flocks are folded; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too;

For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:

Ah then, ah then,

If country love such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curd as doth the king his meat,

And blither too ;

For kings have often fears when they sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup :

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his beds of down, More sounder too;

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove; —
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove; -
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove; -
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON.

ECHOES.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o'er lawns and lakes
Goes answering light!

"T is when the sigh - in youth sincere

And only then,

The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear

Is by that one, that only Dear

Breathed back again.

THOMAS MOORE.

AH, HOW SWEET.

AH, how sweet it is to love!

Ah, how gay is young desire !
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire !
Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart :
E'en the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart.
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein ;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again.
If a flow in age appear,
'T is but rain, and runs not clear.

JOHN DRYDEN.

THE FIRE OF LOVE.

FROM THE "EXAMEN MISCELLANEUM," 1708.

THE fire of love in youthful blood,

Like what is kindled in brushwood,

But for a moment burns;

Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise;

It crackles, and to vapor turns,

And soon itself destroys.

But when crept into aged veins

It slowly burns, and then long remains,

And with a silent heat,

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin,
Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer, -
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,

Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian 's married; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Where now I plain
Alas! in vain,

Lacking my life for liberty.

For without th' one,

Th' other is gone,

And there can none

It remedy;

If th' one be past,

Th' other doth waste,

And all for lack of liberty.

And so I drive,

As yet alive,

Although I strive

With misery;

Drawing my breath,

Looking for death,

And loss of life for liberty.

But thou that still,

May'st at thy will,

Turn all this ill

Adversity;

For the repair,

Of my welfare,

Grant me but life and liberty.

And if not so,

Then let all go

To wretched woe,

And let me die;

For th' one or th' other,
There is none other;

My death, or life with liberty.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING.

I SAW two clouds at morning,
Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on,
And mingled into one;

I thought that morning cloud was blessed, It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,
And join their course, with silent force,

In peace each other greeting;

Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,

Float on, in joy, to meet

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease,

A purer sky, where all is peace.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

THE fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle:-
Why not I with thine?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THOSE EYES.

AH! do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

Ah! be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me;

Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

Ah! do not steep them in thy tears,

For so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them as distraught with fears, Mine own enough betray me.

BEN JONSON.

SWEET, BE NOT PROUD.

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes,
Which starlike 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 lovesick 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.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES O!

GREEN grow the rashes O,

Green grow the rashes 0;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses O.

There's naught but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An''t were na for the lasses O?

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them 0;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O.

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie O, An' warly cares an' warly men May all gae tapsalteerie O.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're naught but senseless asses O!
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
He dearly lo'ed the lasses O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes 0: Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses O.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE CHRONICLE.

MARGARITA first possessed,
If I remember well, my breast,
Margarita first of all;

But when awhile the wanton maid
With my restless heart had played,
Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign
To the beauteous Catharine.

Beauteous Catharine gave place
(Though loath and angry she to part
With the possession of my heart)

To Eliza's conquering face.

Eliza till this hour might reign,
Had she not evil counsels ta'en;
Fundamental laws she broke,
And still new favorites she chose,
Till up in arms my passions rose,
And cast away her yoke.

Mary then, and gentle Anne,
Both to reign at once began;
Alternately they swayed;
And sometimes Mary was the fair,
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,

And sometimes both I obeyed.

Another Mary then arose,
And did rigorous laws impose ;

A mighty tyrant she !
Long, alas! should I have been
Under that iron-sceptred queen,
Had not Rebecca set me free.

When fair Rebecca set me free,
'T was then a golden time with me:

But soon those pleasures fled ;
For the gracious princess died
In her youth and beauty's pride,
And Judith reignéd in her stead.

One month, three days, and half an hour,
Judith held the sovereign power:
Wondrous beautiful her face!
But so weak and small her wit,
That she to govern was unfit,
And so Susanna took her place.

But when Isabella came,
Armed with a resistless flame,
And the artillery of her eye,
Whilst she proudly marched about,
Greater conquests to find out,

She beat out Susan, by the by.

But in her place I then obeyed
Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid,

To whom ensued a vacancy: Thousand worse passions then possessed The interregnum of my breast;

Bless me from such an anarchy!

Gentle Henrietta then,
And a third Mary next began;
Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria;
And then a pretty Thomasine,
And then another Catharine,
And then a long et cætera.