SONG TO CELIA. 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, Modest in her most of mirth; Such she is; and if you know Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. WILLIAM BROWNE, SONG TO CELIA. Drink to me only with thine eyes, 69 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. BEN JONSON, LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song. Burneth soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold, If thou lovest me too much, LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 71 Love me little, more than such, For I fear the end. I'm with little well content, Say thou lov'st me while thou live, Constant love is moderate ever, A suit of durance let it be For all weathers; that for me, For the land or for the sea, Winter's cold or summer's heat, Never can rebel; Such the love that I would gain; ANONYMOUS. ROBIN ADAIR. What's this dull town to me? He whom I wished to see, Wished for to hear! Where's all the joy and mirth Who made the assembly shine? What made the ball so fine? Robin was there! What, when the play was o'er, Robin Adair! But now thou'rt far from me, |