SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best,
If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
Welcome, welcome! do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
He that to the voice is near Breaking from your iv'ry pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.
He that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
SHALL I tell you whom I love? Hearken then awhile to me;
And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 't is she or none, That I love, and love alone.
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.
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 somewhat young; Be assured 't is she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
William Browne, of Tavistock.
OVER the mountains
And over the waves, Under the fountains
And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
When there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
When the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay; If Love come, he will enter
And will find out the way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour Be conceal'd from the day- Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.
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