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النشر الإلكتروني

162

TO A LADY.

Full of pity as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth :
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth:
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is: and if

you

know
Such a one as I have sung:
Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young;
Be assured, 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

BROWNE.

TO A LADY

ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair Lady, when you see the grace
Of beauty in your looking-glass
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty ;
A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the cyprian star :
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;

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A cherry lip that would entice
Even gods to kiss, at any price;
You think no beauty is so rare,
That with your shadow might compare,
That
your

reflection is alone
The thing that men most doat upon.
Lady, alas! your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived, for I
A beauty know of richer grace.
Sweet! be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me!
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love.
Wise Nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright inajesty,
Which had you once but gazed upon,
You could, except yourself, love none;
What then you cannot love, let me-
That face I can, you cannot see ;

« Now you have what you love (you'll say,)
What then is left for me, I pray ?
My face, sweetheart ! if it please thee;
That which you can, I cannot see.
So either love shall gain his due,
Your's Sweet ! in me, and mine in you !

RANDOLPH.

ON A GIRDLE.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale that held that lovely dear; My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

WALLER.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still! Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost

fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that lose the eye of Day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,

Portend success in love: 0, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

MILTON

TO HIS LOVE, WEEPING.

UNCLOSE those eye-lids, and outshine

The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover is divine,

Why should it fade so soon away?
Stars vanish so, and day appears;
The suns so drown'd i' th' morning tears.

166

THE RESOLVE.
Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,

Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover! It is not love's but sorrow's duty,

To die so soon for a dead lover. Banish, oh! banish grief, and then Our joys will bring our hopes again.

H, GLAPTHORNE.

THE RESOLVE.

Tell me not of a face that's fair,

Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,

Nor curls in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,

That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,

I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,

And it must be a she;
The only argument can move

Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be

But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings.

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