An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

heart.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near,
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,

And

your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife,
Thorough the iron gates of life;

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

A. Marvell

29. See'st Not, My Love, With

What a Grace

EE'ST not, my love, with what a grace

SEE'S

The Spring resembles thy sweet face?

Here let us sit, and in these bowers

Receive the odours of the flowers,

For Flora, by thy beauty woo'd, conspires thy good.

See how she sends her fragrant sweet,
And doth this homage to thy feet,
Bending so low her stooping head

To kiss the ground where thou dost tread,

And all her flowers proudly meet, to kiss thy feet.

Then let us walk, my dearest love,
And on this carpet strictly prove
Each other's vow; from thy request

No other love invades my breast.

For how can I contemn that fire which Gods admire?

Το crop that rose why dost thou seek,

When there's a purer in thy cheek ?

Like coral held in thy fair hands,

Or blood and milk that mingled stands:

To whom the Powers and grace have given, a type of

Heaven.

Yon lily stooping t'wards this place,
Is a pale shadow for thy face,

Under which veil doth seem to rush
Modest Endymion's ruddy blush.

A blush, indeed, more pure and fair than lilies are.

Glance on those flowers thy radiant eyes,
Through which clear beams they'll sympathise
Reflective love, to make them far
More glorious than th' Hesperian star,
For every swain amazèd lies, and gazing dies.

See how these silly flowers twine,

With sweet embracings, and combine,
Striving with curious looms to set

Their pale and red into a net,

To show how pure desire doth rest for ever blest.

Why wilt thou then unconstant be?

T' infringe the laws of amity,
And so much disrespect my heart
To derogate from what thou art?

When in harmonious love there is Elysian bliss.

30.

Song

W. Bosworth

'OME, come, thou glorious object of my sight, O my joy, my life, my own delight!

May this glad minute be

Blessed to eternity!

See how the glimmering tapers of the sky
Do gaze, and wonder at our constancy,
How they crowd to behold

What our arms do unfold!

How do all envy our felicities,

And grudge the triumphs of Selindra's eyes!
How Cynthia seeks to shroud

Her crescent in yon cloud!

Where sad night puts her sable mantle on,
Thy light mistaking, hasteth to be gone,
Her gloomy shades give way,

As at the approach of day;

And all the planets shrink, in doubt to be
Eclipsed by a brighter deity.

Look, O Look!
How the small
Lights do fall,

And adore

What before

The heavens have not shown,

Nor their godheads known!

Such a faith,
Such a love

As may move

From above

To descend, and remain

Amongst mortals again.

Sir W. Killigrew

31.

Mounting Hyperboles

SKIN

KIN more pure than Ida's snow,
Whiter far than Moorish milk,

Sweeter than ambrosia too,
Softer than the Paphian silk,
Indian plumes or thistle-down,
Or May-blossoms newly blown,
Is my mistress rosy-pale,
Adding beauty to her veil.

R. Brathwaite

32. No More Unto My Thoughts Appear

NO MORE unto my thoughts appear,
N° At least appear less fair,

For crazy tempers justly fear

The goodness of the air.

Whilst your pure image hath a place

In my impurer mind,

Your very shadow is the glass
Where my defects I find.

Shall I not fly that brighter light
Which makes my fires look pale,
And put that virtue out of sight
Which makes mine none at all?

No, no, your picture doth impart
Such value, I not wish