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," Nor truer tongued nor scorned less, Nor bét could heal, that, by the Mass I durst 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.
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.
Like 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; Yow, 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.
And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?
Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?
Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood, Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?
Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled:
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.
She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires;
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.
Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.
JULIA C. R. DORR
GIVE place, ye ladies, and begone, Boast not yourselves at all: For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone:
I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy:
It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.
I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.
In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope;
In word and eke in deed steadfast: What will you more we say?
If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.
Her rosial color comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier too, than in the rose Within her lovely face.
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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