VENUS' RUNAWAY Beauties, have ye seen this toy, He hath marks about him plenty: And his breath a flame entire, Trust him not; his words, though sweet, All his practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears. Idle minutes are his reign; Then, the straggler makes his gain, To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, Ben Jonson THE KISS 1. Among thy fancies tell me this: It is a creature born and bred Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is an active flame that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. Chor. I. I. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, Has it a speaking virtue? — 2. Yes. How speaks it, say? 2. Do you but this: kiss; Chor. And this Love's sweetest language is. I. Has it a body?—2. Ay, and wings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. Robert Herrick THE WHITE ROSE SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS If this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, 'Twill blush to find itself less white And turn Lancastrian there. But if thy ruby lip it spy, As kiss it thou mayst deign, With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, Anon FAIRY SONG Shed no tear! O shed no tear! To ease my breast of melodies, Shed no tear. Overhead! look overhead! I vanish in the heaven's blue, Adieu, adieu! OVER HILL, OVER DALE Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, John Keats Thorough flood, thorough fire, In those freckles live their savours: As thy softest limbs I feel, Oh the cunning wiles that creep WILLIE WINKIE Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed? --for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue: — glow'rin' like the moon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, wauknin' sleepin' folk! Hey, Willie Wink e the wean's in a creel! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! One crowded hour of glorious life Sir Walter Scott |