CXXXV

My love she's but a lassie yet,
A lichtsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do

To sit an' woo

Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
But there's a braw time coming yet;
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee

O' joys to be,

When fa's the modest gloaming yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet;
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,

Bonny blinking,

Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O her artless smile's mair sweet

Than hinny or than marmalete;

An' right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,

I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her,

The very breeze that kisses her,
The flowery beds

On which she treads,

Though wae for ane that misses her.

Then O to meet my lassie yet,

Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;

For all I see

Are nought to me

Save her that's but a lassie yet!

JAMES HOGG.

CXXXVI

ACCEPT, my love, as true a heart
As ever lover gave:

'Tis free, it vows, from any art,
And proud to be your slave.

Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant,

And let the giver live,

Who, with it, would the world have sent,
Had it been his to give.

And, that Dorinda may not fear

I e'er will prove untrue,

My vow shall, ending with the year,

With it begin anew.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

CXXXVII

WHO is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness; And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXXXVIII

SONG

LADIES, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,

And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue,
Yet you yourselves are not above
The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain,
Lest love on you revenge their pain:
You are not free because you're fair,
The boy did not his mother spare:
Though beauty be a killing dart,
It is no armour for the heart.

SIR GEORGE ETHERAGE.

CXXXIX

HONEST lover whosoever,

If in all thy love there ever

Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame
Were not still even, still the same;

Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If, when she appears i' th' room,

Thou dost not quake, and art struck dumb,
And in striving this to cover

Dost not speak thy words twice over,

Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If fondly thou dost not mistake,

And all defects for graces take,

Persuad'st thyself that jests are broken
When she has little or nothing spoken,
Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If, when thou appear'st to be within,
Thou let'st not men ask and ask again;
And when thou answer'st, if it be

To what was ask'd thee properly,
Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If, when thy stomach calls to eat,
Thou cut'st not fingers 'stead of meat,

And with much gazing on her face

Dost not rise hungry from the place,
Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If by this thou dost discover

That thou art no perfect lover,

And desiring to love true

Thou dost begin to love anew,

Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,
And to love true

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

CXL

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

IF music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again ;—it had a dying fall:
O, it o'ercame my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,

But falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high-fantastical.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXLI

RESTORE thy tresses to the golden ore,
Yield Cytherea's son those arks of love;
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore,
And to the Orient do thy pearls remove.
Yield thy hand's pride unto the ivory white,
To Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet;
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet.