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Yea, a thousand liked well near;
And, in love with all together,
Feared the enjoying either;
'Cause, to be of one possessed,
Barred the hope of all the rest,

George Wither.

CCI.

THE CARELESS LOVER.

SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it, where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebukèd, unafraid,

To connect them to a braid,
And with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;

If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hand as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?

No, she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show;
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not, like fire, by burning too;
But when she by chance hath got
To her heart a second lot,

Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !
Sir Walter Raleigh.

CCII.

THE MANLY LOVER.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-.
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish 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 merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

L

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind

Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,

What care I though 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?

George Wither.

CCIII.

THE PEREMPTORY LOVER.

'Tis not your beauty, not your wit,
That can my heart obtain,

For they could never conquer yet
Either my breast or brain.

For if you'd not prove kind to me,
And true as heretofore,

Henceforth I'll scorn your slave to be,

And doat on you no more.

Think not my fancy to o'ercome

By proving thus unkind;

Nor smoothed sigh, nor smiling frown,
Can satisfy my mind.

Pray let Platonics play such pranks;

Such follies I deride;

For love at least I will have thanks,

And something else beside!

Then open-hearted be with me,
As I shall be with you,

And let your actions be as free

As virtue will allow.

If you'll prove loving, I'll prove kind,—
If true, I'll constant be-

If Fortune chance to change your mind,
I'll turn as soon as ye.

Since our affections well ye know,
In equal terms do stand,
'T is in your power to love or no ;
Mine's likewise in my hand.
Dispense with your austerity,
Inconstancy abhor,

Or by great Cupid's deity,

I'll never love you more.

Anonymous.

CCIV.

LOVE FOR LOVE.

I NE'ER could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me :
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose untouched by art?
I will own their colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I e'en be certain then,
Till it grateful press again.
Must I with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so-when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

CCV.

ADVICE TO LOVERS.

TO TRY AND FAINT NOT.

FAIR amorist! what, dost thou think
To taste love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? Or to devour
A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter

Th' Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge? A lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.

He that loves, and fears to try,

Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 'Tis to show it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent? Is she mute?

Silence fully grants thy suit.

Doth she pout and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.

Is she sick? Why, then be sure,
She invites thee to the cure.

Doth she cross thy suit with "No?"
Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of men

In question? Nay, she loves thee then,

And if e'er she makes a blot,

She's lost if that thou hitt'st her not.

He that, after ten denials,

Dares attempt no further trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire
The dainties of his chaste desire.

Sir Philip Sidney.

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