So well inclinèd to all good
That all her wit was set by the rood,
Without malice, upon gladness,
And thereto I saw never yet a less
Harmful than she was in doing.
I say not that she not had knowing
What harm was, or else she
Had known no good, so thinketh me:
And truly, for to speak of truth
But she had had, it had been ruth,
Therefore she had so much her dell
And I dare say, and swear it well
That Truth himself over all and all
Had chose his manor principal
In her that was his resting place;
Thereto she had the moste grace
To have stedfast perseverance
And easy attempre governance
That ever I knew or wist yet
So pure suffraunt was her wit.
CHAUCER.

THE QUEEN.

I.

To heroism and holiness

How hard it is for man to soar, But how much harder to be less Than what his mistress loves him for!

He does with ease what do he must, Or lose her, and there's nought debarred

From him who's called to meet her trust,

And credit her desired regard. Ah, wasteful woman! she that may On her sweet self set her own price,

Knowing he cannot choose but pay; How has she cheapened paradise, How given for nought her priceless gift,

How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine,

Which, spent with due, respective thrift,

Had made brutes men, and men divine.

II.

O queen! awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give,

And comprehend and wear the crown
Of thy despised prerogative!
I who in manhood's name at length
With glad songs come to abdicate
The gross regality of strength,

Must yet in this thy praise abate, That through thine erring humble

ness

And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee. High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,

The coward had grasped the hero's sword,

The vilest had been great, hadst thou,

Just to thyself, been worth's reward:

But lofty honors undersold

Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favor that makes folly bold Puts out the light in virtue's face. COVENTRY PATMORE.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone:
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But, if no faithless action stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with
bays,

And love thee more and more.
MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

TO LUCASTA.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.
RICHARD LOVELACE.

APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

THEY that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up:

Neither do, nor care to, know, Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, nor choice or art,

To the first that's fair or kind,
Make a present of their heart:
Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in th' evening made,

Stars gave the first delight;
Admiring in the gloomy shade
Those little drops of light.

Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertained his eyes.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determin'd there.
And could no higher rise.

He neither might nor wished to know

A more refulgent light;

For that (as mine your beauties now),

Employed his utmost sight.
EDMUND WALLER.

THE LADY'S YES.

"YES!" I answered you last night: "No!" this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below,
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes, or fit for No!

Call me false; or call me free;
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both:
Time to dance is not to woo;
Wooer light makes fickle troth,
Scorn of me recoils on you.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood, Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled:

Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires;

He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

JULIA C. R. DORR.

THE PORTRAIT.

GIVE place, ye ladies, and begone,
Boast not yourselves at all:
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone:
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy:

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope;

In word and eke in deed steadfast:
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosial color comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
More ruddier too, than in the rose
Within her lovely face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Nor at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as astray.

The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mixt with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair
And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair!

How might I do to get a graffe
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.
HEYWOOD.

THE TRIBUTE.

No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome

But serves for her familiar wear; The far-fetch'd diamond finds its home

Flashing and smouldering in her hair;

For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply

With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli;

The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,

All doff for her their ornaments,

Which suit her better than themselves;

And all, by this their power to give Proving her right to take, proclaim

Her beauty's clear prerogative
To profit so by Eden's blame.
COVENTRY PATMORE.

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your
light,

You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,