SERENADE. From Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. William Shakespeare. WHO is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? The heaven such grace did lend her, Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. To help him of his blindness, Then to Silvia let us sing, Upon the dull earth dwelling: STILL TO BE NEAT, STILL TO BE DREST. From THE SILENT WOMAN. Ben Jonson. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed,— Lady. it is to be presumed. Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, Such sweet neglect more taketh me They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. SONG. Hartley Coleridge. SHE is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, But now her looks are coy and cold, Than smiles of other maidens are. COUNTY GUY. From QUENtin Durward. 1 Sir Walter Scott. Ан! County Guy the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade, To beauty shy, by lattice high, The star of Love, all stars above, TO A CHILD OF QUALITY. FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704; THE AUTHOR SUPPOS'D FORTY. Matthew Prior. LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell, For, while she makes her silkworms beds She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prude should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordain'd, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. Lord Byron. SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, `. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, A heart whose love is innocent! O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART. William Wordsworth. O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of a “fiery heart": These notes of thine - they pierce and pierce; |