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Chapter 111 : MADRIGAL My love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her; For ever

MADRIGAL

My love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.

Unknown

ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW

I saw fair Chloris walk alone, Whilst feathered rain came softly down, As Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower.

The wanton snow flew on her breast Like little birds unto their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thawed into a tear; Thence falling on her garment's hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.

William Strode [1602-1645]

"THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"

There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her pa.s.sing by, And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet I will love her till I die.

Unknown

CHERRY-RIPE

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion [?--1619]

AMARILLIS

I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid.

Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own.

Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go!

But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.

If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers.

Give them gold, that sell love, Give me the Nut-brown la.s.s, Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.

These ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No!

Thomas Campion [?--1619]

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your pa.s.sions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Henry Walton [1568-1639]

HER TRIUMPH From "A Celebration of Charis"

See the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than Words that soothe her!

And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath s.m.u.tched it?

Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag o' the bee?

O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]