In Cupid's court

Cupid in literature; Love poetry
Due north of the dimple that hides in her chin,
      Two lips conceal music behind them;
    And when a smile plays on them, Cupids begin
      To break from the bonds that confine them.

    Just south of her chin stands a full-rounded throat,
      Whose whiteness than marble is whiter;
    Southeast and southwest of it, shoulders I note—
      No curves are more graceful, or lighter.

    In the south of her bosom, a bit to the west,
      Is the greatest of all of her beauties:
    My loadstar’s the heart that is hid in her breast;
      To obey it’s my sweetest of duties.

                                      S. D. SMITH, JR.




[Illustration: LOVE IS DEAD]


    Ring out your bells! let mourning shows be spread!
                  For Love is dead.
            All love is dead, infected
                With plague of deep disdain:
            Worth, as naught worth, rejected,
                And faith fair scorn doth gain.
                From so ungrateful fancy,
                From such a female phrenzy,
                From them that use men thus,
                  Good Lord! deliver us.

    Weep, neighbours! weep: do you not hear it said
                  That Love is dead?
            His death-bed peacock’s folly,
                His winding-sheet is shame,
            His will false seeming holy,
                His sole executor blame.
                From so ungrateful fancy,
                From such a female phrenzy,
                From them that use men thus,
                  Good Lord! deliver us.

    Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read!
                  For Love is dead.
            Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth,
                My Mistress’ marble heart;
            Which epitaph containeth—
                “Her eyes were once his dart.”
                From so ungrateful fancy,
                From such a female phrenzy,
                From them that use men thus,
                  Good Lord! deliver us.

    Alas! I lie: rage hath this error bred:
                  Love is not dead.
            Love is not dead, but sleepeth
                In her unmatched mind,
            Where she his counsel keepeth
                Till due deserts she find.
                Therefore from so vile fancy,
                To call such wit a phrenzy
                Who love can temper thus,
                  Good Lord! deliver us.

                                     SIR PHILIP SIDNEY




WILY CUPID


    Trust not his wanton tears,
      Lest they beguile ye;
    Trust not his childish sigh,
      He breatheth slily.
    Trust not his touch,
      His feeling may defile ye;
    Trust nothing that he doth,
      The wag is wily.
    If you suffer him to prate,
    You will rue it over-late.
      Beware of him, for he is witty:
    Quickly strive the boy to bind,
    Fear him not, for he is blind,
      If he get loose, he shows no pity.

                                        HENRY CHETTLE.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
In Cupid's court

No reviews yet
