So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
W. Shakespeare

Ben's Ideal

Castara

STILL

TILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd :
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me

Than all the adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson

L

IKE the violet which alone

Prospers in some happy shade,

My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betray'd,

For she's to her self untrue
Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrowed grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest, being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent:

Of her self survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent that ill

She nor acts nor understands.
Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the Court,
Where oft honour splits her mast:
And retir'dness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit

Where vice is enthron'd for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight; Without mast, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night: For that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie;
And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to Heaven fly:

All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me.

William Habington

Campion's Lady

AN

ND would you see my mistress' face?
It is a flowery garden place,

Where knots of beauties have such grace
That all is work and nowhere space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born:
It is a meadow, yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heavens' bright reflex,
Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex:
It is th' Idea of her sex,

Envy of whom doth worlds perplex.

It is a face of Death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles :
Where Death and Love in pretty wiles
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair beauty's freshest youth,

It is the feigned Elysium's truth:

The spring, that winter'd hearts reneweth ;
And this is that my soul pursueth.

Thomas Campion

MY

Soft as those kind looks she gave me;
When, with love's resistless art,
And her eyes, she did enslave me;
But her constancy's so weak,
She's so wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleasures, wounding blisscs,
She can dress her eyes in love,
And her lips can arm with kisses;
Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder,
But my jealous heart would break

Should we live one day asunder.

Earl of Rochester

Rosalyne

L

IKE to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines;

Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think,
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver-crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne!
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne !

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same. Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With Orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyne!

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
Heigh ho, would she were mine!