Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

For that so rich a one,
I'll clear the sum
If it will come
Unto a million.

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
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then, down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
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,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your posy wring;

Ye that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing;
You take wrong ways; those far-fetch'd helps be such
As do betray a want of inward touch,

And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light :
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

CXXIV

THE FAIR SINGER

To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony,

That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair;
My disentangled soul itself might save,
Breaking the curlèd trammels of her hair;

But how should I avoid to be her slave,
Whose subtle art invisibly can wreathe
My fetters of the very air I breathe ?

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.

[blocks in formation]

I'd have you do it ever : when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms ;
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

A wave o' the sea,

Nothing but that;

that you might ever do

move still, still so, and own

No other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

That all your acts are queens.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXXVI

THE MANLY HEART

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-
If she think not well of me
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best ;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind
If not outward helps she find,

Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

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,
The green elm leaves above her—
Meet we no angels, Pansie?

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.

« AnteriorContinuar »