No, nor her steadfast constancy, can deter

My vassal heart from ever honoring her.
Though these be powerful arguments to prove
I love in vain, yet I must ever love.

Say, if she frown when you that word rehearse,
Service in prose is oft called love in verse:
Then pray her, since I send back on my part
Her papers, she will send me back my heart.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED.

Give me more love, or more disdain,
The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings equal ease unto my pain;
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed
Of heaven that's but from hell released:
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.'

SONG.

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties' orient deep, These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downward fall in dead of night; For, in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

The idea may be found in an old French saying, quoted by Lovelace: "Donne moi plus de pitie ou plus de creaulte, car pas ce je ne puis pas vivre, ne morir."

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

William Browne.

Born in Devonshire (1590-1645), Browne was educated at Oxford. He wrote "Britannia's Pastorals," "The Shepherd's Pipe," "The Inner Temple Masque," and other poems. These were popular in his own day, but fell afterward into neglect. The best of them were written before he was twenty years of age, and he published none after thirty. "The Siren's Song" is one of the most precious felicities of genius. It is rare in literary history that so much promise is found so inexplicably stunted and silenced by time. George Wither seems to have had a high estimate of Browne's gifts, and wrote: "Thou art young, yet such a lay Never graced the month of May, As (if they provoke thy skill) Thou canst fit unto the quill."

SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE?

Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me;
And if such a woman move
As I now shall versifie,
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight

As ne'er yet embraced a heart: So much good, so truly tried,— Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath:
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove

Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is; and if you know

Such a one as I have sung,

Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young;

Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

THE SIREN'S SONG.

FROM "THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE."

Steer, hither steer your wingéd pines,
All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscovered mines,

A prey to passengers,-

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships;

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;
But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves,―our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,-

Exchange, and be a while our guests;
For stars, gaze on our eyes;

The compass, Love shall hourly sing;
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Robert Herrick.

Herrick (1591-1674) was the son of a goldsmith of London. He was educated for the Church, and obtained from Charles I. the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. From this he was ejected during the civil wars. His works consist chiefly of religious and Anacreontic poems in strange association; and his rank among the lyric writers of his day is with the highest. He seems to have repented of the impure character of some of his verse, for he writes:

"For those my unbaptized rhymes,

Writ in my wild unhallowed times-
For every sentence, clause, and word
That's not inlaid with thee, O Lord!
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book that is not thine."

Herrick's vein of poetry is of a high quality when he is at his best; but sometimes he sinks to mere doggerel. His verses to flowers, for which he seems to have had a genuine love, are masterpieces of tenderness and grace.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay
As you or anything:

We die

As your hours do, and dry
Away,

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.

NOT A PROPHET EVERY DAY.

'Tis not every day that I
Fitted am to prophesy :

No, but when the spirit fills
The fantastic pannicles;
Full of fire, then I write

As the Godhead doth indite.

Thus enraged, my lines are hurled,
Like the Sibyl's, through the world:

Look how next the holy fire
Either slakes or doth retire;
So the fancy cools, till when
That brave spirit comes again.

ODE TO BEN JONSON.
Ah, Ben!

Say, how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts
Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had

As made us nobly wild, not mad,

And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine?

Come, my Corinna, come, and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green, and trimmed with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this

An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove,

As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white thorn laden, home;
Some have despatched their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth;
Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;

Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament;

east,

Above an hour since; yet you not drest—

Nay, not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept
Against you come some orient pearls unwept :
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in pray

ing:

Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die,
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,

So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,

All love, all liking, all delight,

Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

TO DIANEME.

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which, starlike, sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives-yours yet free;