The Golden Treasury. Various

Where none can match her,

       In some close corner of my brain:

       There I embrace and kiss her;

       And so I both enjoy and miss her.

      J. Donne

XIII

      VIA AMORIS

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      High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,

       And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,

       Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet

       More oft than to a chamber-melody,—

      Now, blesséd you bear onward blesséd me

       To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;

       My Muse and I must you of duty greet

       With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;

      Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;

       By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;

       Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;

       And that you know I envy you no lot

      Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,—

       Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!

      Sir P. Sidney

XIV

      ABSENCE

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      Being your slave, what should I do but tend

       Upon the hours and times of your desire?

       I have no precious time at all to spend

       Nor services to do, till you require:

      Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour

       Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

       Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

       When you have bid your servant once adieu:

      

      Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

       Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

       But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

       Save, where you are, how happy you make those;—

      So true a fool is love, that in your will

       Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

      W. Shakespeare

XV

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      How like a winter hath my absence been

       From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

       What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,

       What old December's bareness every where!

      And yet this time removed was summer's time:

       The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

       Bearing the wanton burden of the prime

       Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

      Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

       But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;

       For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

       And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

      Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

       That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

      W. Shakespeare

XVI

      A CONSOLATION

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      When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

       I all alone beweep my outcast state,

       And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

       And look upon myself, and curse my fate;

      Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

       Featured like him, like him with friends possest,

       Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

       With what I most enjoy contented least;

      

      Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

       Haply I think on Thee—and then my state,

       Like to the lark at break of day arising

       From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

      For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings

       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

      W. Shakespeare

XVII

      THE UNCHANGEABLE

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      O never say that I was false of heart,

       Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:

       As easy might I from myself depart

       As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;

      That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

       Like him that travels, I return again,

       Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

       So that myself bring water for my stain.

      Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

       All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

       That it could so preposterously be stain'd

       To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:

      For nothing this wide universe I call,

       Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.

      W. Shakespeare

XVIII

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      To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,

       For as you were when first your eye I eyed

       Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

       Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;

      Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd

       In process of the seasons have I seen,

       Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

       Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

      Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,

       Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

       So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: