So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. CVI When in the chronicle of wasted time 1 see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 1 see their antique pen would have expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CIX O, never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart That is my home of love: if I have ranged, So that myself bring water for my stain. reigned All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. CXVI Let me not to the marriage of true minds That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips. and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. CXXX My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not withered be; 1 SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS Still to be neat, still to be drest, Though art's hid causes are not found, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. SONG THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS. So court a mistress, she denies you, At morn and even, shades are longest; ' always Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. DRINK TO-DAY, AND DROWN ALL SORROW Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow, Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, Then let us swill, boys, for our health; MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) SONNET LXI Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, Nay I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes: 'consumptive cough Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. WILLIAM DRUMMOND (1585-1649) TO A NIGHTINGALE Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care; Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweetsmelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays. THE BOOK OF THE WORLD Of this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare: |