Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings, known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE.
GEORGE WITHER.
1 LOV'D a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen.
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she lov'd me too;
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.
Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister,
Which pass'd all others far;
Medley House, between Godstow and Oxford. It has been supposed by Ritson, from the mention of this place of summer recreation for the Oxford students, that Wither wrote this song when at College in the year 1606; but it is not likely to have been the production of a youth of eighteen. It did not occur to Ritson that a man may write about his college haunts long after he has quitted them.
'Twas I that paid for all things,
'Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,-
I'm but a fool to pine :
'Twas I that beat the bush,—
The birds to others flew :
For she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.
If ever that Dame Nature,
For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature
Like unto her would make;
Let her remember this,
To make the other true:
For this, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.
No riches now can raise me,
No woe make me despair,
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care;
I've lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven,―adieu!
Since she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.
IIENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, born 1591, died 1669.
TELL me no more how fair she is ;
I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.
And tell me not how fond I am
To tempt my daring fate,
From whence no triumph ever came
But to repent too late:
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote myself away.
I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame;
So that thou wilt not envy me
The glory of my flame,
Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
In that it falls her sacrifice.
ROBERT HERRICK, born 1591.
Go, happy Rose! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,
For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go,
And tell her this, but do not so!
Lest a handsome anger fly
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up as well as I.
|