The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 77

These gray hairs are by chance, you see-- Boys are sometimes gray, I am told: Rose came by with a smile for me, Just as I thought I was getting old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS

"Love your neighbor as yourself,"-- So the parson preaches: That's one half the Decalogue,-- So the prayer-book teaches.

Half my duty I can do With but little labor, For with all my heart and soul I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that, To my self-denial, Not to love her, though, might be Something of a trial.

Why, the rosy light, that peeps Through the gla.s.s above her, Lingers round her lips,--you see E'en the sunbeams love her.

So to make my merit more, I'll go beyond the letter:-- Love my neighbor as myself?

Yes, and ten times better.

For she's sweeter than the breath Of the Spring, that pa.s.ses Through the fragrant, budding woods, O'er the meadow-gra.s.ses.

And I've preached the word I know, For it was my duty To convert the stubborn heart Of the little beauty.

Once again success has crowned Missionary labor, For her sweet eyes own that she Also loves her neighbor.

George Augustus Baker [1849-1906]

THE IRONY OF LOVE

"SIGH NO MORE, LADIES"

From "Much Ado About Nothing"

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on sh.o.r.e; To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

A RENUNCIATION

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pa.s.s the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

Edward Vere [1550-1604]

A SONG

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From Love's imperial chain, Take warning, and be taught by me, To avoid the enchanting pain; Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove, To careless seamen, hidden rocks, To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair s.e.x, if bliss you prize; The snake's beneath the flower: Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, That tasted quiet more?

How faithless is the lovers' joy!

How constant is their care The kind with falsehood to destroy, The cruel, with despair.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwell: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]