Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A face that's best

By its own beauty drest,

And can alone command the rest:

A face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

Sydneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Whate'er delight

Can make day's forehead bright

Or give down to the wings of night.

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers;

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

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.

Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.'

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 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.

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.

R. Crashaw

LXXX

THE GREAT ADVENTURER

Over the mountains

And over the waves,

Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,

Which Neptune obey ;
Over rocks that are steepest

Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place

For the glow-worm to lie;
Where there is no space

For receipt of a fly;

Where the midge dares not venture
Lest herself fast she lay ;

If love come, he will enter
And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;

But if she whom love doth honour
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle

The phoenix of the east ;

The lioness, ye may move her

To give o'er her prey;

But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.

Anon.

LXXXI

CHILD AND MAIDEN

Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No happiness or pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day,

I little thought the rising fire
Would take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;

Age from no face takes more away

Than youth conceal'd in thine.

But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,
And center'd in my breast.

My passion with your beauty grew,
While Cupid at my heart
Still as his mother favour'd you
Threw a new flaming dart :

Each gloried in their wanton part ;
To make a lover, he

Employ'd the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

Sir C. Sedley

LXXXII

COUNSEL TO GIRLS

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a getting

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry :
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

R. Herrick

LXXXIII

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

Colonel Lovelace

LXXXIV

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night,
Which 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?

Ye 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?

Ye curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise ?