? Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. William Shakespeare HEN in the chronicle of wasted time Wise descriptions of the fairest wights, I And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, Of this our time, all you prefiguring; D TO CELIA William Shakespeare RINK to me only with thine eyes, Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! Ben Jonson 333 83 A THE POETRY OF DRESS SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:- An erring lace, which here and there I see a wild civility,— Do more bewitch me, than when art Robert Herrick 84 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind TELL That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind True, a new mistress now I chase, And with a stronger faith embrace Yet this inconstancy is such I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Richard Lovelace 85 THE BANKS OF RHINE1 HE castled crag of Drachenfels ΤΗ Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Between the banks which bear the vine, Whose far white walls along them shine, 1 From a lyrical interlude in the third canto of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes Above, the frequent feudal towers Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; Lord Byron 86 IN TO AUGUSTA1 N the desert a fountain is springing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Lord Byron 87 MAID OF ATHENS AID of Athens, ere we part, MAL Give, O give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. 1 From Stanzas to Augusta. 2 My Life, I love thee. By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; RIGHT star! would I were steadfast as thou art BRIGHT Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless eremite, Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— |