The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 12

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

A DEVOUT LOVER

I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.

Like tapers on the altar s.h.i.+ne her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in.

We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers: I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, And come unto my courts.h.i.+p as my prayer.

Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]

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 which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compa.s.s! 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!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

CASTARA

Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser eye betrayed: For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view

Such is her beauty as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace.

Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood; She is n.o.blest, being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courts.h.i.+p meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence, eloquent.

Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands.

Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast.

Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night.

O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs l.u.s.t.

She her throne makes reason climb, While wild pa.s.sions captive lie; And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]

TO ARAMANTHA That She Would Dishevel Her Hair

Aramantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that s.h.i.+ning hair!

As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' east, To wanton in that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not, then, wind up that light In ribbons, and o'er-cloud in night, Like the sun in's early ray; But shake your head and scatter day.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

CHLOE DIVINE

Chloe's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine; And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.

Thomas D'Urfey [1653-1723]

MY PEGGY

My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay: My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm na very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her at The wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare: My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look doun on a' the toun, That I look doun upon a croun: My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blithe and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As waulking o' the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confessed, By a' the rest that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]