I am more gentle, I strike not thee, I will not hold thee in dungeon tower. Though the king chain me, I will not cower, Though my sire banish me over the sea. Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee; Go with the favour of Venus and Night. On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee." BARINE Lady, if you ever paid Forfeit for a heart betrayed, If for broken pledge you were By one tooth, one nail less fair, I would trust. But when a vow Slips from off your faithless brow, Forth you flash with purer lustre, And a fonder troop you muster. You with vantage mock the shade Of a mother lowly laid, Silent stars and depths of sky, And high saints that cannot die. Laughs the Queen of love, I say, Laughs at this each silly fay, Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting Darts of fire on flint of fretting. Ay, the crop of youth is yours, Fresh enlistments throng your doors, Veterans swear you serve them ill, Threaten flight, and linger still. Dames and thrifty greybeards dread Lest you turn a stripling's head; Poor young brides are in dismay Lest you sigh their lords away. TO BRITOMART MUSING Classic throat and wrist and ear Tempt a gallant to draw near; Must romantic lip and eye Make him falter, bid him fly? If Camilla's upright lance By the contrast did enhance Charms of curving neck and waist, Yet she never was embraced. She was girt to take the field, And her aventayle concealed Half the grace that might have won Homage from Evander's son. Countess Montfort, clad in steel, Showed she could both dare and feel; Smiled to greet the champion ships, Touched Sir Walter with the lips. She could charm, although in dress Like the sainted shepherdess, Jeanne, a leader void of guile, Jeanne, a woman all the while. Damsel with the mind of man, Lay not softness under ban; For the glory of thy sex Twine with myrtle manly necks. HERSILIA I see her stand with arms a-kimbo, A blue and blonde s_ub aureo nimbo_; She scans her literary limbo, The reliques of her teens; Things like the chips of broken stilts, Or tatters of embroidered quilts, Or nosegays tossed away by jilts, Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes. Soon will she gambol like a lamb, Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam. Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam, And chat beneath the limes, Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks Lit thought by one another's looks, Embraced their jests and kicked their books, In England's happier times; Ere magic poets felt the gout, Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt Ere Apologia had found out The round world must be right;