Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:-- A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips, Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good? Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there's nought within, They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find,-- One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,-- My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be, That when my spirit wonn'd above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. Anon. A WOMAN'S REASON. Love me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part; No! nor for my constant heart,-- For these may fail, or turn to ill; So thou and I shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me well, but know not why. So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever! Anon. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come, he will enter And soon find out his way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight; But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confin'd, And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may; Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.