The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 182 : Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are: Whose

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more n.o.ble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chast.i.ty shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, First does the longing lover right.

Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!"

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

In her whole frame Have Nature all the name; Art and Ornament, the shame!

Her flattery, Picture and Poesy: Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish--no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May She enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions--but her Story!

Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]

SONG From "Abdelazer"

Love in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee.

Thus thou and I the G.o.d have armed And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

Aphra Behn [1640-1689]

LES AMOURS

She that I pursue, still flies me; Her that follows me, I fly; She that I still court, denies me; Her that courts me, I deny; Thus in one web we're subtly wove, And yet we mutiny in love.

She that can save me, must not do it; She that cannot, fain would do; Her love is bound, yet I still woo it; Hers by love is bound in woe: Yet how can I of love complain, Since I have love for love again?

This is thy work, imperious Child, Thine's this labyrinth of love, That thus hast our desires beguiled, Nor seest how thine arrows rove.

Then, prithee, to compose this stir, Make her love me, or me love her.

But, if irrevocable are Those keen shafts that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far, That thou once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]

RIVALS

Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are cursed; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst!

By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me, Would you but slight the rest!

How great soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.

William Walsh [1663-1708]

"I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE"