XXVII. THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This primrose all bepearl'd with dew; What doubts and fears are in a lover. Thomas Carew. XXVIII. THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. "SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee, tell!”— It is that fountain, and that well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, that passing bell That tolls us all to heaven or hell; And this is love, as I heard tell. "Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!"— It is December match'd with May, When lusty woods, in fresh array, Hear, ten months after, of the play; And this is love, as I hear say. "Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine !”- It is a tooth-ache, or like pain; It is a game where none doth gain, The lass saith, No, and would full fain! "Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"yea," it is a It is a 66 66 nay,” A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away; Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may, "Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!"- Sir Walter Raleigh. XXIX. TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIS NEITHER TOYING NOR TALKING. You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, XXX. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more whither do stray For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Ask me no more whither doth haste Ask me no more where those stars light, Ask me no more if east or west, Thomas Carew. XXXI. JULIA'S BED. SEE'ST thou that cloud as silver clear, Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere? 'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there. Robert Herrick. XXXII. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. WHEN as in silks my Julia goes, Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see O how that glittering taketh me! Robert Herrick. XXXIII. DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A SWEET disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. Robert Herrick. XXXIV. My Love in her attire doth show her wit, For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone. Unknown. XXXV. CHERRY-RIPE. THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh,— Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry! Unknown. XXXVI. THE CARELESS LOVER. NEVER believe me if I love, Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove,- And she's extremely handsome too. She's fair, she's wondrous fair, But I care not who knows it, Ere I die for love, I fairly will forego it. This heat of hope, or cold of fear, When I am hungry I do eat, A gentle round, fill'd to the brink, Black Fryars to me, and old Whitehall, |