« EdellinenJatka »
HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have ye seen a toy,
Called Love; a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind ? If he be ainong yo, say ; He is Venus' run-away. She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss, How and where herself would wish : But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another. Marks he hath about him plenty, You may know him among twenty: All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip: Over liver, lights, and heart, Yet not stay in any part. And if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, which outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuel, When his days are to be cruel; Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood : Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to reason.
Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
If by these ye please to know him,
SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then a while to me:
As I now shall versifie,
Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art ; In as many virtues dight,
As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath: And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
And her virtues grace her birth;
Modest in her most ot' mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
That she be but somewhile young ;
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
In the Nice Valour. HENCE all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
But only melancholy,
These are the sounds we feed upon.
In the Queen of Corinth.
Sorrow recalls not time that's gone;
BEAU MONT AND FLETCHER.
In a Wife for a Month. LET those complain that feel love's cruelty,
And in their With roses gently he corrected me;
My war is without rage or blows; My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires, And hope springs up inflam'd with her new fires.
No more an exile will I dwell,
With folded arms and sighs all day, Reck’ning the torments of my hell,
And flinging my sweet joys away. I am call'd home again to quiet peace, My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease. Yet what is living in her eye,
Or being blest with her sweet tongue, If these no other joys imply?
A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong. To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.