Or her well-deserving known What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do, That without them dare to woo, And unless that mind I see, What care I, though great she be? Great or good, or kind, or fair, For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? LXXIII. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591-1674. THE CHEAT OF CUPID; OR, THE UNGENTLE GUEST. O NE silent night of late, When every creature rested, Came one unto my gate, And knocking, me molested. Who's that, said I, beats there, Cast off, said he, all fear; And let not locks thus keep ye. For I a boy am, who By moonless nights have swerved; I pitiful arose, And soon a taper lighted; And did myself disclose Unto the lad benighted. I saw he had a bow, And wings too, which did shiver; And looking down below, I spied he had a quiver. I to my chimney's shine Brought him, as love professes, And chafed his hands with mine, And dried his dropping tresses: But when he felt him warmed, Said he, with these late showers. Forthwith his bow he bent, And wedded string and arrow, And struck me, that it went Quite through my heart and marrow. Then laughing loud, he flew Away, and thus said flying, Adieu, mine host, adieu, I'll leave thy heart a-dying. LXXIV. THE TEAR. GLIDE, gentle streams, and bear Along with you my tear To that coy girl; Who smiles, yet slays Me with delays, And strings my tears as pearl. See! see! she's yonder set, Making a carcanet Of maiden flowers: There, there present This orient, And pendant pearl of ours. Then say, I've sent one more Gem to enrich her store; And that is all Which I can send Or vainly spend, For tears no more will fall. Nor will I seek supply Of them, the springs once dry; But I'll devise, Among the rest, A way that's best How I may save mine eyes. Yet say, should she condemn Then say, my part Out them, to keep Say too, she would have this: She shall. Then my hope is And nothing have To send or save, I'm sure she'll ask no more. LXXV. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. ATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, GA Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to day To-morrow will be dying. |