CHERRY-RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Thomas Campion [? -1619] AMARILLIS I CARE not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid. Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No. If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Elizabeth of Bohemia Give them gold, that sell love, But when we come where comfort is, These ladies must have pillows, With milk and honey fed; 525 Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No! 1. Thomas Campion [`? -1619] ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA You meaner beauties of the night, You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, By your weak accents; what's your praise You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known So, when my mistress shall be seen Henry Wotton [1568-1639] HER TRIUMPH From "A Celebration of Charis " SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty And, enamored, do wish, so they might That they still were to run by her side, Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother And from her arched brows such a grace As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, A Welcome Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! 1527 Ben Jonson [1573?-1637] OF PHYLLIS In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Sat milking her fair flock: Among that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, William Drummond [1585-1649] A WELCOME Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that to the voice is near, He that looks still on your eyes, Shall not want the summer's sun. He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing. He that question would anew And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, William Browne [1591-1643?] THE COMPLETE LOVER FOR her gait, if she be walking; For her state's sake; and admire her Gait and state and wit approve her; Be she sullen, I commend her For a kind one her prefer I. So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her. William Browne [1591–1643?] RUBIES AND PEARLS SOME asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. |