Give Beauty all her right! She's not to one form tied; Each shape yields fair delight Where her perfections bide: Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, And Ros'mond was as sweet as she. Some the quick eye commends, Some swelling[4] lips and red; Pale looks have many friends, Through sacred sweetness bred: Meadows have flowers that pleasures move, Though roses are the flowers of love. Free beauty is not bound To one unmoved clime; She visits every ground And favours every time. Let the old loves with mine compare, My sovereign is as sweet and fair. [4] Old ed. "smelling." From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597. Go crystal tears! like to the morning showers, And sweetly weep into thy lady's breast! And as the dews revive the drooping flowers, So let your drops of pity be addrest! To quicken up the thoughts of my desert, Which sleeps too sound whilst I from her depart. Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart! Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death, Feels never any touch of my desert. Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice Both from a spotless heart and patient eyes. From EGERTON MS., 2013. _The Verses were set to Music by Dr. John Wilson._ Go, turn away those cruel eyes, For they have quite undone me; They used not so to tyrannize When first those glances won me. But 'tis the custom of you men,-- False men thus to deceive us! To love but till we love again, And then again to leave us. Go, let alone my heart and me, Which thou hast thus affrighted! I did not think I could by thee Have been so ill requited. But now I find 'tis I must prove That men have no compassion; When we are won, you never love Poor women, but for fashion, Do recompense my love with hate, And kill my heart! I'm sure Thou'lt one day say, when 'tis too late, Thou never hadst a truer. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Second Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Good men show! if you can tell, Where doth Human Pity dwell? Far and near her I would seek, So vexed with sorrow is my breast. "She," they say, "to all, is meek; And only makes th' unhappy blest." Oh! if such a saint there be, Some hope yet remains for me: Prayer or sacrifice may gain From her implored grace, relief; To release me of my pain, Or at the least to ease my grief. Young am I, and far from guile, The more is my woe the while: Falsehood, with a smooth disguise, My simple meaning hath abused: Casting mists before mine eyes, By which my senses are confused.