She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie ;
And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to Heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me.

Campion's Lady

William Habington

AND would you see my mistress' face?

It is a flowery garden place,

Where knots of beauties have such grace
That all is work and nowhere space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born :
It is a meadow, yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heavens' bright reflex,
Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex :
It is th' Idea of her sex,

Envy of whom doth worlds perplex.

It is a face of Death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles :
Where Death and Love in pretty wiles
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair beauty's freshest youth,

It is the feigned Elysium's truth :

The spring, that winter'd hearts reneweth ;
And this is that my soul pursueth.

Thomas Campion

MY

Soft as those kind looks she gave me ;

When, with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me ;
But her constancy's so weak,
She's so wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleasures, wounding blisses,
She can dress her eyes in love,
And her lips can arm with kisses;
Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder,

But my jealous heart would break

Should we live one day asunder.

Earl of Rochester

Rosalyne

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines;

Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne !

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think,

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver-crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne !

Her lips are like two budded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne !

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same. Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With Orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view ;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne !

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan

The absence of fair Rosalyne ;
Since for a fair there's fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine,

Heigh ho! fair Rosalyne :

Heigh ho! my heart, would God that she were mine!

Thomas Lodge

Samela

LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,

Girt with crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela;

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa Fount the e,
Is fair Samela;

As fair Aurora in her morning grey,

Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela;

Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day,

Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,

Shines fair Samela;

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory

Of fair Samela ;

Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams,
Her brow's bright arches framed of ebony,

Thus fair Samela.

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,

And Juno in the show of majesty,

For she's Samela.

My Luve

Pallas in wit; all three, if you well view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity

Yield to Samela.

Robert Greene

MY Luve is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June :

O my Luve is like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve !
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns

Julia

You

are a tulip seen to-day,

But, dearest, of so short a stay,

That where you grew scarce man can say.