I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be: But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee! Ben Jonson. A WOMAN'S CONSTANCY. Now thou hast loved me one whole day, To-morrow, when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou then ante-date some new-made vow? Or say, that now We are not just those persons which we were? Or, that oaths made in reverential fear Of Love and his wrath any may forswear? Or, as true deaths true marriages untie, So lovers' contracts, images of those, Bind but till Sleep, Death's image, them unloose? Or, your own end to justify For having purposed change and falsehood, you Can have no way but falsehood to be true? Vain lunatic! Against these scapes I could Dispute and conquer if I would; Which I abstain to do; For, by to-morrow, I may think so too. Dr. John Donne. SWEETEST LOVE. Sweetest love, I do not go For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me. But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best Thus to use myself in jest By feigned death to die. Yester-night the sun went hence, And yet is here to-day; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Hastier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. Dr. John Donne. TO AURORA. O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then would'st thou melt the ice out of thy breast, And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. O, if thy pride did not our joys control, What world of loving wonders should'st thou see! For if I saw thee once transform'd in me, Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul; Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine, And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone: No, I would have my share in what were thine: And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, This happy harmony would make them none. W. Alexander, Earl of Stirling. PHILLIS. In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phillis, beneath an oak, Sat milking her fair flock. 'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight! Her hand seem'd milk, in milk it was so white. William Drummond. TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.