A Lady's Prayer to Cupid
Since I must needs into thy school return,
Be pitiful, O Love, and do not burn
Me with desire of cold and frozen age,
Nor let me follow a fond boy or page;
But, gentle Cupid, give me if you can
One to my love, whom I may call a man,
Of person comely, and of face as sweet;
Let him be sober, secret, and discreet,
Well practiced in Love's school; let him within
Wear all his beard, and none upon his chin.
He That Loves A Rosy Cheek
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from starlike eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
Lips And Eyes
In Celia's face a question did arise:
Which were more beautiful, her lips or eyes.
"We," said the eyes, "send forth those pointed darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts."
"From us," replied the lips, "proceed those blisses
Which lovers reap by kind words and sweet kisses,"
Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid oriental pearl a shower,
Whereat the lips, moved with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweet smile unlocked their pearly treasure,
And bade Love judge whether did add more grace
Weeping or smiling pearls to Celia's face.
On Celia Singing
You that think love can convey
No other way
But through the eyes into the heart
His fatal dart;
Close up their casements, and but hear
This syren sing,
And on the wing
Of her sweet voice it shall appear
That love can enter at the ear.
Then unveil your eyes, behold
The curious mold
Where that voice dwells; and as we know
When the cocks crow
We freely may
Gaze on the day,
So may you, when the music's done,
Awake and see the rising sun.
Red And White Roses
Read in these roses the sad story
Of my hard fate, and your own glory.
In the white you may discover
The paleness of a fainting lover;
In the red the flames still feeding
On my heart, with fresh wounds bleeding.
The white will tell you how I languish,
And the red express my anguish;
The white my innocene displaying,
The red my martyrdom betraying.
The frowns that on your brow resided,
Have those roses thus divided.
Oh! let your smiles but clear the weather,
And then they both shall grow together.
Song: Mediocrity In Love Rejected
Give me more love or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone
Bring equal unto my pain,
The temperate affords me none:
Either extreme of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then crown my joys or cure my pain:
Give me more love or more disdain.
Song: To My Inconstant Mistress
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart, which thy false oather did wound;
And to my sould a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crown'd.
The shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damn'd for thy false apostasy.
The Compliment
I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks-love's bowers;
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red:
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those soft
Red coral lips I've kissed so oft;
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech whence music still is heard,
Though from those lips a kiss being taken
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee, O my fairest,
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar, which stands under
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neck be whiter far
Than towers of polished ivory are.
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