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The Father's wisdom willed it so,
Both wills were in one stature;
And took on him our nature.
What comfort by him do we win,
To make us heirs of glory!
Can man forget this story?
A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.
IN TEN LYRIC PIECES.
HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.
Let it not
wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love.
3 It would appear from the opening verses that these graceful lyrics, which will not suffer in comparison with the most perfect love poems of antiquity, were composed when Jonson had attained the age of fifty, — about 1623 ; but as the concluding stanzas of ller Triumph (see post, p. 141) are to be found in the Devil's an Ass, produced about seven years before, the date of these pieces must not be inferred from the introduction, which seems to have been written last. They were, probably, produced at different periods, and finally arranged in their present order with a view to publication. -- B.
Though I now write fifty years,
you know that this is she,
I beheld her, on a day,
“Love, if thou wilt ever see
away Straight he ran, and durst not stay, Letting bow and arrow fall, Nor for any threat, or call, Could be brought once back to look. I, foolhardy, there up took Both the arrow he had quit, And the bow, which thought to hit This my object; but she threw Such a lightning, as I drew, At my face, that took my sight, And my motion from me quite; So that there I stood a stone, Mocked of all, and called of one, (Which with grief and wrath I heard,) Cupid's statue with a beard; Or else one that played his ape, In a Hercules his shape.
After many scorns like these,
She content was to restore
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth !
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
But enjoy such a sight,
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
AU that Love's world compriseth !
As Love's star when it riseth !
Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements'
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it? Have marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver ?
Or swan's down ever ?
Or the nard in the fire ?