Upon Black Eyes And Becoming Frowns

By James Howell (1594-1666).

  Black eyes! in your dark orbs do lie
My ill, or happy, destiny;
If with clear looks you me behold,
You give me mines and mounts of gold;
If you dart forth disdainful rays,        5
To your own dye you turn my days.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, by changes dwell,
  My bane or bliss, my paradise or hell.

  That lamp, which all the stars doth blind,
Yields to your lustre, in some kind;        10
Though you do wear, to make you bright,
No other dress but that of night;
He glitters only in the day;
You, in the dark, your beams display.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.

  The cunning thief that lurks for prize,        15
At some dark corner watching lies:
So that heart-robbing god doth stand
In your black lobbies, shaft in hand,
To rifle° me of what I hold
More precious far than Indian gold.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.        20

  O powerful negromantic° eyes!
Who in your circles strictly pries,
Will find that Cupid with his dart,
In youth doth practise the black art°;
And, by those spells I am possest,        25
Tries his conclusions in my breast.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.

  Look on me, though in frowning wise;
Some kinds of frowns become Black Eyes;
As pointed diamonds, being set,
Cast greater lustre out of jet?        30
Those pieces we esteem most rare,
Which in night-shadows postured are;
Darkness in churches congregates the sight;
Devotion strays in glaring light.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, by changes dwell,        35
  My bane or bliss, my paradise or hell.


Notes

Line 18: rifle. Search and rob.

Line 21: negromantic. Necromantic, bewitching.

Line 24: black art. Witchcraft, magic.

Upon Julia's Hair Filled With Dew

By Robert Herrick (1591-1674).

Dew sat on Julia’s hair,
  And spangled too,
Like leaves that laden are
  With trembling dew:
Or glittered to my sight        5
  As when the beams
Have their reflected light
  Danced by the streams.

Ceux Qui Vivent, Ce Sont Ceux Qui Luttent

By Victor Hugo (1802-1885). The poem appears in Hugo's 1853 collection Les Châtiments, which is an indictment of the autocratic regime of Napoleon III, who overthrew the Second Republic in 1851 to become emperor of France.

Ceux qui vivent, ce sont ceux qui luttent ; ce sont
Ceux dont un dessein ferme emplit l'âme et le front.
Ceux qui d'un haut destin gravissent° l'âpre cime.
Ceux qui marchent pensifs, épris° d'un but sublime.
Ayant devant les yeux sans cesse, nuit et jour,          5
Ou quelque saint labeur ou quelque grand amour.
C'est le prophète saint prosterné devant l'arche,
C'est le travailleur, pâtre, ouvrier, patriarche.
Ceux dont le coeur est bon, ceux dont les jours sont pleins.
Ceux-là vivent, Seigneur ! les autres, je les plains.          10
Car de son vague ennui le néant les enivre,
Car le plus lourd fardeau°, c'est d'exister sans vivre.
Inutiles, épars, ils traînent ici-bas
Le sombre accablement d'être en ne pensant pas.
Ils s'appellent vulgus, plebs, la tourbe, la foule.          15
Ils sont ce qui murmure, applaudit, siffle, coule,
Bat des mains, foule aux pieds, bâille, dit oui, dit non,
N'a jamais de figure et n'a jamais de nom ;
Troupeau qui va, revient, juge, absout, délibère,
Détruit, prêt à Marat comme prêt à Tibère,          20
Foule triste, joyeuse, habits dorés, bras nus,
Pêle-mêle, et poussée aux gouffres inconnus.
Ils sont les passants froids sans but, sans noeud, sans âge ;
Le bas du genre humain qui s'écroule en nuage ;
Ceux qu'on ne connaît pas, ceux qu'on ne compte pas,          25
Ceux qui perdent les mots, les volontés, les pas.
L'ombre obscure autour d'eux se prolonge et recule ;
Ils n'ont du plein midi qu'un lointain crépuscule,
Car, jetant au hasard les cris, les voix, le bruit,
Ils errent près du bord sinistre de la nuit.          30

Quoi ! ne point aimer ! suivre une morne carrière
Sans un songe en avant, sans un deuil en arrière,
Quoi ! marcher devant soi sans savoir où l'on va,
Rire de Jupiter sans croire à Jéhova,
Regarder sans respect l'astre, la fleur, la femme,          35
Toujours vouloir le corps, ne jamais chercher l'âme,
Pour de vains résultats faire de vains efforts,
N'attendre rien d'en haut ! ciel ! oublier les morts !
Oh non, je ne suis point de ceux-là ! grands, prospères,
Fiers, puissants, ou cachés dans d'immondes repaires°,          40
Je les fuis, et je crains leurs sentiers détestés ;
Et j'aimerais mieux être, ô fourmis des cités,
Tourbe, foule, hommes faux, coeurs morts, races déchues°,
Un arbre dans les bois qu'une âme en vos cohues !


Notes

Line 3: gravir. Climb.

Line 4: épris. From s'éprendre de, to fall in love with.

Line 12: fardeau. Burden.

Line 40: [le] repaire. Den.

Line 43: déchu. From déchoir, decline or depreciate.

Line 44: [la] cohue. Crowd.

The Scholar-Gipsy

By Matthew Arnold (1822-1888). For more information, see Wikipedia.

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill;
  Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes°:
    No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
  Nor let thy bawling° fellows rack° their throats,
    Nor the cropp’d grasses shoot another head.        5
      But when the fields are still,
  And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
    And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
    Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green;
  Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.        10

Here, where the reaper was at work of late,
  In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves
    His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise,
  And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
    Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use;        15
      Here will I sit and wait,
  While to my ear from uplands far away
    The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
    With distant cries of reapers in the corn—
  All the live murmur of a summer’s day.        20

Screen’d is this nook o’er the high, half-reap’d field,
  And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be.
    Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
  And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
    Pale blue convolvulus° in tendrils creep:        25
      And air-swept lindens° yield
  Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
    Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
    And bower me from the August sun with shade;
  And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers:        30

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s° book—
  Come, let me read the oft-read tale again:
    The story of that Oxford scholar poor,
  Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
    Who, tired of knocking at Preferment’s door,        35
      One summer morn forsook
  His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore,
    And roam’d the world with that wild brotherhood,
    And came, as most men deem’d, to little good,
  But came to Oxford and his friends no more.        40

But once, years after, in the country lanes,
  Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
    Met him, and of his way of life inquired.
  Whereat he answer’d, that the Gipsy crew,
    His mates, had arts to rule as they desired        45
      The workings of men’s brains;
  And they can bind them to what thoughts they will:
    ‘And I,’ he said, ‘the secret of their art,
    When fully learn’d, will to the world impart:
  But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!’        50

This said, he left them, and return’d no more,
  But rumours hung about the country-side,
    That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
  Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
    In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,        55
      The same the Gipsies wore.
  Shepherds had met him on the Hurst° in spring;
    At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
    On the warm ingle-bench°, the smock-frock’d° boors
  Had found him seated at their entering,        60

But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly:
  And I myself seem half to know thy looks,
    And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace;
  And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks°
    I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place;        65
      Or in my boat I lie
  Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer heats,
    ’Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
    And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor° hills,
  And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats.        70

For most, I know, thou lov’st retirèd ground.
  Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe,
    Returning home on summer nights, have met
  Crossing the stripling° Thames at Bablock-hithe°,
    Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,        75
      As the slow punt° swings round:
  And leaning backwards in a pensive dream,
    And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
    Pluck’d in shy fields and distant Wychwood° bowers,
  And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream:        80

And then they land, and thou art seen no more.
  Maidens who from the distant hamlets come
    To dance around the Fyfield° elm in May,
  Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
    Or cross a stile° into the public way.        85
      Oft thou hast given them store
  Of flowers—the frail-leaf’d, white anemone°—
    Dark bluebells° drench’d with dews of summer eves,
    And purple orchises° with spotted leaves—
  But none has words she can report of thee.        90

And, above Godstow Bridge°, when hay-time ’s here
  In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
    Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
  Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
    To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass,        95
      Have often pass’d thee near
  Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown:
    Mark’d thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
    Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air;
  But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.        100

At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills,
  Where at her open door the housewife darns°,
    Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
  To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
    Children, who early range these slopes and late        105
      For cresses from the rills,
  Have known thee watching, all an April day,
    The springing pastures and the feeding kine°,
    And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine,
  Through the long dewy grass move slow away.        110

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood°,
  Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way
    Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
  With scarlet patches tagg’d and shreds of gray,
    Above the forest-ground call’d Thessaly—        115
      The blackbird picking food
  Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
    So often has he known thee past him stray
    Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray,
  And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.        120

And once, in winter, on the causeway° chill
  Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
    Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge
  Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
    Thy face towards Hinksey° and its wintry ridge?        125
      And thou hast climb’d the hill
  And gain’d the white brow of the Cumnor range;
    Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
    The line of festal light in Christ Church hall—
  Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange°.        130

But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown
  Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
    And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
  That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls
    To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe:        135
      And thou from earth art gone
  Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid;
    Some country nook, where o’er thy unknown grave
    Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave—
  Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree’s shade.        140

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours.
  For what wears out the life of mortal men?
    ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls:
  ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
    Exhaust the energy of strongest souls,        145
      And numb the elastic powers.
  Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen°,
    And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
    To the just-pausing Genius we remit
  Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.        150

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so?
  Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire:
    Else wert thou long since number’d with the dead—
  Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire.
    The generations of thy peers are fled,        155
      And we ourselves shall go;
  But thou possessest an immortal lot,
    And we imagine thee exempt from age
    And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page,
  Because thou hadst—what we, alas, have not!        160

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers
  Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
    Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;
  Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
    Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.        165
      O Life unlike to ours!
  Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,
    Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
    And each half lives a hundred different lives;
  Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.        170

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we,
  Vague half-believers of our casual creeds,
    Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d,
  Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
    Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill’d;        175
      For whom each year we see
  Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
    Who hesitate and falter life away,
    And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
  Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?        180

Yes, we await it, but it still delays,
  And then we suffer; and amongst us One,
    Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly
  His seat upon the intellectual throne;
    And all his store of sad experience he        185
      Lays bare of wretched days;
  Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs,
    And how the dying spark of hope was fed,
    And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,
  And all his hourly varied anodynes°.        190

This for our wisest: and we others pine,
  And wish the long unhappy dream would end,
    And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear,
  With close-lipp’d Patience for our only friend,
    Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair:        195
      But none has hope like thine.
  Thou thro’ the fields and thro’ the woods dost stray,
    Roaming the country-side, a truant boy,
    Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,
  And every doubt long blown by time away.        200

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,
  And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
    Before this strange disease of modern life,
  With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
    Its heads o’ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife—        205
      Fly hence, our contact fear!
  Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
    Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern
    From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn,
  Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.        210

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
  Still clutching the inviolable shade,
    With a free onward impulse brushing through,
  By night, the silver’d branches of the glade—
    Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,        215
      On some mild pastoral slope
  Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales,
    Freshen thy flowers, as in former years,
    With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
  From the dark dingles°, to the nightingales.        220

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
  For strong the infection of our mental strife,
    Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for° rest;
  And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
    Like us distracted, and like us unblest.        225
      Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
  Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix’d thy powers,
    And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made:
    And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
  Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.        230

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
  —As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
    Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
  Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily,
    The fringes of a southward-facing brow        235
      Among the Ægean isles;
  And saw the merry Grecian coaster° come,
    Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
    Green bursting figs, and tunnies° steep’d in brine;
  And knew the intruders on his ancient home,        240

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves;
  And snatch’d his rudder, and shook out more sail,
    And day and night held on indignantly
  O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
    Betwixt the Syrtes° and soft Sicily,        245
      To where the Atlantic raves
  Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails
    There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
    Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
  And on the beach undid his corded bales°.        250


Notes

Line 2: cote. Shelter or enclosure for small livestock.

Line 4: bawl. Cry out lustily.

Line 4: rack. Strain.

Line 25: convolvulus. Genus of flowering plants with trumpet-shaped flowers.

Line 26: linden. Type of shade tree.

Line 31: Glanvil. Joseph Glanvill (1636-1680), English writer, philosopher and clergyman.

Line 57: Hurst. A village in Berkshire.

Line 59: ingle. A hearth or the fire therein.

Line 59: smock. Protective overgarment.

Line 64: rook. Black European crow.

Line 69: Cumnor. A village west of Oxford.

Line 74: stripling. A youth.

Line 74: Bablock-hithe. Bablock Hythe, a small hamlet west of Oxford.

Line 76: punt. A small, shallow boat.

Line 79: Wychwood. An area in Oxfordshire.

Line 83: Fyfield. A village in Oxfordshire.

Line 85: stile. Steps or rungs to admit passage to humans, but not to livestock.

Line 87: anemone. Genus of colorful flowers of the buttercup family.

Line 88: bluebell. Any of several blue, bell-shaped flowers.

Line 89: orchis. Orchid.

Line 91: Godstow Bridge. Bridge at Godstow, near Oxford, over the River Thames.

Line 102: darn. Mend (clothing) with rows of stitches.

Line 108: kine. Plural of cow.

Line 111: Bagley Wood. A wood in Oxfordshire.

Line 121: causeway. Elevated road.

Line 125: Hinksey. Place name associated with Oxford.

Line 130: grange. Farm.

Line 147: teen. Sorrow.

Line 190: anodyne. Pain-killer.

Line 220: dingle. Narrow, shady dell.

Line 223: spoil for. Crave.

Line 237: coaster. Coastwise trading ship.

Line 239: tunnies. Tuna.

Line 245: Syrtes. Two Libyan gulfs, proverbially dangerous for shipping.

Line 250: bale. Large bundle or package of freight.

Lochinvar

By Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832).

Oh!° young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword° he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,        5
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske° river where ford° there was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby° gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:        10
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,—        15
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,—
‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’—

‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway°, but ebbs like its tide—        20
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,        25
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,—
‘Now tread we a measure°!’ said young Lochinvar.        30

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard° did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far        35
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the coupe° the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!        40
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur°;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Canobie Lee,        45
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?


Notes

Line 1: Oh! From Marmion. [Braithwaite]

Line 3: broadsword. Broad-bladed sword for cutting rather than stabbing.

Line 8: Eske. River in northwest Ireland.

Line 8: ford. Wadabele stretch in a river.

Line 9: Netherby. Netherby Hall, the historic home of the Graham family in Arthuret, Cumbria.

Line 20: Solway. Solway Firth, an inlet between Cumbria and Dumfries and Galloway.

Line 30: a measure. A dance.

Line 32: galliard. A spirited 16th century dance.

Line 39: coupe. A type of four-wheeled carriage.

Line 41: scaur. Scar, a cliff.

Song

By William Congreve (1670-1729).

See, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes!
  And now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
  From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give,        5
  But different fates ere night fulfil;
How many by his warmth will live!
  How many will her coldness kill!

My Lady's Hand

By Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542).

O goodly hand!
Wherein doth stand
      My heart distraught in pain;
Dear hand, alas!
In little space        5
      My life thou dost restrain.

O fingers slight!
Departed right,
      So long, so small, so round;
Goodly begone,        10
And yet a bone,
      Most cruel in my wound.

With lilies white
And roses bright
      Doth strain thy colour fair;        15
Nature did lend
Each finger’s end
      A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,
Since that thou hast        20
      My heart in thy demesne
For service true
On me to rue,
      And reach me love again.

And if not so,        25
There with more woe
      Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffer’d smart,
      And rid it out of pain.        30

A Cricket Bowler

By Edward Cracroft Lefroy (1855-1891).

Two minutes’ rest till the next man goes in!
  The tired arms lie with every sinew slack
  On the mown grass. Unbent the supple back,
And elbows apt to make the leather spin
Up the slow bat and round the unwary shin,—        5
  In knavish hands a most unkindly knack;
  But no guile shelters under this boy’s black
Crisp hair, frank eyes, and honest English skin.

Two minutes only. Conscious of a name,
  The new man plants his weapon with profound        10
    Long-practised skill that no mere trick may scare.
Not loth, the rested lad resumes the game:
  The flung ball takes one madding tortuous bound,
    And the mid-stump three somersaults in air.


Note

Line 13: madding. Frenzied.

Song, In Connection With The Shakespeare Jubilee At Stratford Upon Avon

By David Gerrick (1717-1779).

Ye Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses!
    See what at our Jubilee passes!
Come, revel away! Rejoice, and be glad;
For the Lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire Lad;
          Warwickshire Lad!        5
          All be glad,
For the Lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire Lad!

    Be proud of the charms of your County;
    Where Nature has lavished her bounty.
Where much she has given, and some to be spared;        10
For the Bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire Bard;
          Warwickshire Bard:
          Never paired;
For the Bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire Bard!

    Each shire° has its different pleasures,        15
    Each shire has its different treasures:
But to rare Warwickshire all must submit;
For the Wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire Wit;
          Warwickshire Wit:
          How he writ!        20
For the Wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire Wit!

    Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden°;
    And half a score more, we take pride in.
Of famous Will Congreve° we boast too the skill;
But the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will;        25
          Warwickshire Will;
          Matchless still!
For the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will!

    Our Shakespeare compared is to no man;
    Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman.        30
Their swans are all geese to the Avon’s sweet Swan;
And the Man of all men, was a Warwickshire Man;
          Warwickshire Man;
          Avon’s Swan!
And the Man of all men, was a Warwickshire Man!        35

    As ven’son is very inviting,
    To steal it our Bard took delight in;
To make his friends merry he never was lag;
And the Wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire Wag;
          Warwickshire Wag;        40
          Ever brag!
For the Wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire Wag!

    There never was seen such a creature;
    Of all she was worth, he robbed nature;
He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief;        45
And the Thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire Thief!
          Warwickshire Thief;
          He’s the chief!
For the Thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire Thief!


Notes

Line 15: shire. U.K. county.

Line 22: Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden. Ben Jonson (1572-1637), Thomas Otway (1652-1685) and John Dryden (1631-1700), English poets.

Line 24: Will Congreve. William Congreve (1670-1729), English poet.

The Disposition

By Thomas Stanley (1625-1678).

Though when I lov’d thee thou wert fair,
  Thou art no longer so:
Those glories do the pride they wear
  Unto opinion owe.
Beauties, like stars, in borrow’d lustre shine:        5
And ’twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye
  Do now with mine expire;
Thy brightest graces fade and die
  At once, with my desire.        10
Love’s fires thus mutual influence return:
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
  To be implor’d or woo’d,
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore        15
  The wealth my love bestow’d;
And thy despis’d disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind.