The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 129 : Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lo

Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you!

And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [?--1650?]

"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated!

Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted-- Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languis.h.!.+

Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it-- Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me?

Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me-- Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!

Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

Ye blus.h.i.+ng virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-- For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!

How rich a perfume do ye yield!

In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath!-- Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulcher shall be.

There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]

TO FLAVIA

'Tis not your beauty can engage My wary heart; The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art; And yet he s.h.i.+nes as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own s.e.x we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts: Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart: For these may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever.

Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.

Unknown

"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

When, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are, like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrowed lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By their quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

or Owen Felltham [1602?-1668]

A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM

O for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below!

I strangely long to know Whether the n.o.ble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and's thither gone Where each sits by his own?