By God my wrath is all forgive. Therewith her list so well to live, That dulness was of her adrad, She n'as too sober ne too glad; In all thinges more measure Had never I trowe creature,
But many one with her look she hurt, And that sat her full little at herte: For she knew nothing of their thought,
But whether she knew, or knew it not, Alway she ne cared for them a stree;1 To get her love no near n'as he That woned at home, than he in Inde, The foremost was alway behinde; But good folk over all other She loved as man may his brother, Of which love she was wonder large, In skilful places that bear charge: But what a visage had she thereto, Alas! my heart is wonder wo That I not can describen it; Me lacketh both English and wit For to undo it at the full. And eke my spirits be so dull So great a thing for to devise, I have not wit that can suffice To comprehend her beauté,
But thus much I dare saine, that she Was white, ruddy, fresh, and lifely hued.
And every day her beauty newed. And nigh her face was alderbest; 3 For, certes, Nature had such lest To make that fair, that truly she Was her chief patron of beauté, And chief example of all her worke And moulter: for, be it never so derke, Methinks I see her evermo, And yet, moreover, though all tho That ever lived were now alive, Not would have founde to descrive In all her face a wicked sign, — For it was sad, simple, and benign. And such a goodly sweet speech Had that sweet, my life's leech, So friendly, and so well y-grounded Upon all reason, so well founded, And so treatable to all good, That I dare swear well by the rood, Of eloquence was never found So sweet a sounding faconde,5 Nor truer tongued nor scorned less, Nor bét could heal, that, by the Mass Idurst swear, though the Pope it sung,
There was never yet through her tongue
Man or woman greatly harmèd As for her was all harm hid, No lassie flattering in her worde, That, purely, her simple record Was found as true as any bond, Or truth of any man'es hand.
Her throat, as I have now memory, Seemed as a round tower of ivory, Of good greatness, and not too great, And fair white she hete?
That was my lady's name right, She was thereto fair and bright, She had not her name wrong, Right fair shoulders, and body long She had, and armes ever lith Fattish, fleshy, not great therewith, Right white hands and nailès red Round breasts, and of good brede 8 Her lippes were; a straight flat back, I knew on her none other lack, That all her limbs were pure snowing In as far as I had knowing. Thereto she could so well play What that her list, that I dare say That was like to torch bright That every man may take of light Enough, and it hath never the less Of manner and of comeliness. Right so fared my lady dear For every wight of her mannere Might catch enough if that he would If he had eyes her to behold For I dare swear well if that she Had among ten thousand be, She would have been at the best, A chief mirror of all the feast Though they had stood in a row To men's eyen that could know, For whereso men had played or waked,
Methought the fellowship as naked Without her, that I saw once As a crown without stones. Truely she was to mine eye The solein phoenix of Araby, For there liveth never but one, Nor such as she ne know I none. To speak of goodness, truely she Had as much debonnairte
As ever had Hester in the Bible, And more, if more were possible; And sooth to say therewithal She had a wit so general,
So well inclined to all good That all her wit was set by the rood, Without malice, upon gladness, And thereto I saw never yet a less Harmful than she was in doing. I say not that she not had knowing What harm was, or else she Had known no good, so thinketh me: And truly, for to speak of truth But she had had, it had been ruth, Therefore she had so much her dell And I dare say, and swear it well That Truth himself over all and all Had chose his manor principal In her that was his resting place; Thereto she had the moste grace To have stedfast perseverance And easy attempre governance That ever I knew or wist yet So pure suffraunt was her wit. CHAUCER.
THREE years she grew in sun and
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.
"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend: Nor shall she fail to see,
Even in the motions of the storm. Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round;
And beauty, born of murmuring sound,
Shall pass into her face.
To heroism and holiness
How hard it is for man to soar, But how much harder to be less Than what his mistress loves him for!
He does with ease what do he must, Or lose her, and there's nought debarred
From him who's called to meet her trust.
And credit her desired regard. Ah, wasteful woman! she that may On her sweet self set her own price,
Knowing he cannot choose but pay; How has she cheapened paradise, How given for nought her priceless gift,
How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine,
Which, spent with due, respective thrift,
Had made brutes men, and men divine.
O queen! awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give,
And comprehend and wear the crown Of thy despised prerogative! I who in manhood's name at length With glad songs come to abdicate The gross regality of strength,
Must yet in this thy praise abate, That through thine erring humble
And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee. High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow.
The coward had grasped the hero's sword,
The vilest had been great, hadst thou,
Just to thyself, been worth's reward:
But lofty honors undersold
Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favor that makes folly bold Puts out the light in virtue's face. COVENTRY PATMORE.
I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.
My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy: For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.
As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone: My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.
But, if no faithless action stain Thy love and constant word, I'll make thee famous by my pen, And glorious by my sword. I'll serve thee in such noble ways As ne'er was known before; I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more. MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.
TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
RICHARD LOVELACE.
APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.
THEY that never had the use Of the grape's surprising juice, To the first delicious cup All their reason render up:
Neither do, nor care to, know, Whether it be best or no.
So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, nor choice or art,
To the first that's fair or kind, Make a present of their heart: Tis not she that first we love, But whom dying we approve.
To man, that was in th' evening made,
Stars gave the first delight; Admiring in the gloomy shade Those little drops of light.
Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand Removed them from the skies, He gazing toward the east did stand, She entertained his eyes.
But when the bright sun did appear, All those he 'gan despise; His wonder was determin'd there. And could no higher rise.
He neither might nor wished to know
A more refulgent light;
For that (as mine your beauties now).
Employed his utmost sight. EDMUND WALLER.
"YES!" I answered you last night: "No!" this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.
When the tabors played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for Yes, or fit for No!
Call me false; or call me free; Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on thy face shall see Any grief for change on mine.
Yet the sin is on us both: Time to dance is not to woo; Wooer light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you.
Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly as the thing is high, Bravely as for life and death, With a loyal gravity.
Lead her from the festive boards; Point her to the starry skies; Guard her by your faithful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries.
By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore, And her Yes, once said to you, Shall be Yes for evermore. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
NAY, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love shehas simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.
Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;
And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and "made up" in play.
And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.
Five summers ago, when you woord her, you stood on the selfsame plane,
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.
She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May;
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.
Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down;
At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet.
Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as astray.
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