For that so rich a one, If it will come By this, I guess, Of happiness Who has a little measure, He must of right To th' utmost mite Make payment for his pleasure. ROBERT HERRICK. CXXII CUPID and my Campaspe played Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) She won, What shall (alas !) become of me? JOHN LYLY. CXXIII You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, Ye that do dictionary's method bring Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows; You take wrong ways; those far-fetch'd helps be such And sure, at length stol❜n goods do come to light: SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. CXXIV THE FAIR SINGER To make a final conquest of all me, That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind, I could have fled from one but singly fair; But how should I avoid to be her slave, It had been easy fighting in some plain, Where victory might hang in equal choice; But all resistance against her is vain, Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice: And all my forces needs must be undone, She having gainèd both the wind and sun. ANDREW MARVELL. CXXV LOVE'S IDOLATRY WHAT you do, Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms; To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. CXXVI THE MANLY HEART SHALL I, wasting in despair, Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day Shall my silly heart be pined If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move 'Cause her fortune seems too high Thinks what with them he would do Great or good, or kind or fair, For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? CXXVII GEORGE WITHER. PANSIE CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover. The grass grew proud beneath her feet, She said, "We meet no angels now,' And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough, She did it that great honour What, meet no angels, Pansie? O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropp'd brown eyes so tender; Then what, said I? gallant replies Seem flattery and offend her; But-meet no angels, Pansie? THOMAS ASHE. |