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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 grow ;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do inclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow,
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still ;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

RICHARD ALISON.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover ?

Prythee why so pale ?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Prythee why so pale ?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?

Prythee why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do 't ?

Prythee why so mute ?
Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her!

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

JULIA
SOME ask'd me where the rubies grew,

And nothing I did say,
But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where ;

Then spoke I to my girle,
To part her lips, and shew'd them there

The quarelets of pearl.

One ask'd me where the roses grew;

I bade him not go seek ;
But forthwith bade my Julia show
A bud in either cheek.

* ROBERT HERRICK.

ABSENCE
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

TAKE, O TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY

TAKE, O, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, like break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in vain.

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are yet of those that April wears !
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

HARK I HARK I THE LARK AT HEAVEN'S

GATE SINGS
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (Cymbeline).

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

LOVE
COME live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hill and valley, grove and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSION

ATE SHEPHERD
If all the world and love were young
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yield;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

PAIN OF LOVE
To live in hell, and heaven to behold,
To welcome life, and die a living death,
To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold,
To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath,
To tread a maze that never shall have end,
To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears,
To climb a hill, and never to descend,
Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears,
To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree,
To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw,
To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be,
And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ;

If this be love, if love in these be founded,
My heart is love, for these in it are grounded.

HENRY CONSTABLE.

HOW MANY TIMES
How many times do I love thee, dear ?
Tell me how many thoughts there be

In the atmosphere
Of a new-fallen year,

Whose white and sable hours appear

The latest flake of Eternity :
So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many times do I love, again ?
Tell me how many beads there are

In a silver chain

Of the evening rain,
Unravell’d from the tumbling main,

And threading the eye of a yellow star
So many times do I love, again.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

I DO CONFESS THOU'RT SWEET
I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind,

That kisses everything it meets.
And since thou can with more than one,
Thou 'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.
The morning rose, that untouch'd stands,

Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells !
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,

Her sweet no longer with her dwells ;
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

A PARTING
SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part:
Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so clearly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ;
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, –
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

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