It is the storehouse, where doth lie If the journey be so long, No woman will adventer; But dreading her weak vessel's wrong, The voyage will not enter: Then may she sigh and lie alone, In love with all, yet loved of none. Thomas Browne [1605-1682] VALERIUS ON WOMEN SHE that denies me I would have; Venus hath power to rule mine heart, Temptations offered I still scorn; I'll neither glut mine appetite, Nor seek to starve my will. Diana, double-clothed, offends; The last begets a surfeit, and That crafty girl shall please me best, And every wanton willing kiss Can season with a nay. Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?] DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES IF love be life, I long to die, Live they that list for me; And he that gains the most thereby, A fool at least shall be. The Constant Lover But he that feels the sorest fits, 791 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain. In day by feigned looks they live, By lying dreams in night; Each frown a deadly wound doth give, Each smile a false delight. If 't hap their lady pleasant seem, It is for others' love they deem: Disdain doth make her coy. Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead, Blown here and there with every wind, Like flowers in the mead; Now war, now peace, now war again, Though dead in midst of life, In peace, and yet at strife. Francis Davison [fl. 1602] THE CONSTANT LOVER OUT upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, Time shall moult away his wings. Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place. SONG John Suckling [1609-1642] From "Aglaura" WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! John Suckling [1609-1642] WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS WHOE'ER she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me: Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth: Wishes to His Supposed Mistress 793 Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses. I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie: Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what their reader sweetly ru'th. A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes. Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress Themselves in simple nakedness. Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace. Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are: Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. |