Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? G. WITHER. 104. MELANCHOLY. Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly There's naught in this life sweet If men were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. J. FLETCHER. 105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR. Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love. Since then how often hast thou prest The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin that peopled hell; A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! O if such clime thou canst endure Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, What conquest o'er each erring thought Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought! I had not wander'd far and wide With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me If she had lived, and lived to love me. Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race, And frantic hurry of the chase; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then--from the carcase turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:-- Yes, God and man might now approve me If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me! SIR W. SCOTT. 106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE. O waly waly, up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.