WRONG not, sweet mistress of my heart'
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart
Who sues for no compassion:
Since if my plaints were not to' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear to' exceed my duty.
For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire but none deserve
A place in her affection;
I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.
Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
SHALL I like an hermit dwell,
On a rock, or in a cell?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize,
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too:
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
Few readers are unacquainted with the sufferings of the unfortunate Secretary Davison, who was so deeply implicated in the affair of Mary Queen of Scots. Francis Davison, author of the following poems, was the son of that statesman. The pieces are transcribed from the publication entitled "A Poetical Rhapsodie," of which there have been three editions.
Ан, Cupid, I mistook thee;
I for an archer and no fencer took thee:
But as a fencer oft feigns blows and thrusts
Where he intends no harm,
Then turns his baleful arm
And wounds that part which least his foe mistrusts; So thou with fencing art,
Feigning to wound mine eyes, hast hit my heart.
LOVE! if a god thou art,
Then evermore thou must
Be merciful and just;
If thou be just, O wherefore doth thy dart
Wound mine alone, and not my Lady's heart?
If merciful;-then why
Am I to pain reserv'd,
Who have thee truly serv'd,
While she, that by thy power sits not afly,
Laughs thee to scorn, and lives at liberty?
Then, if a god thou wilt accounted be,
Heal me like her, or else wound her like me.
SOME there are as fair to see to,
But by art and not by nature;
Some as tall and goodly be too,
But want beauty to their stature :
Some have gracious kind behaviour,
But are foul or simple creatures;
Some have wit but want sweet favour,
Or are proud of their good features.
Only you, and you want pity,
Are most fair, tall, kind, and witty.
WHEN I to you of all my woes complain,
Which you make me endure without release,
With scornful smiles you answer me again,
That lovers true must bear, and hold their peace.
Dear! I will bear, and hold my peace; if you
Will hold your peace, and bear what I shall do.
William Shakspeare was born of reputable parents, April 23, 1564, at Stratford upon Avon, in Warwickshire. His education was such as a country free school could then supply, but limited as to duration; and he married very early in life. It is remarkable, that he died on the same day of the same month in which he was born (April 23), in the year 1616, and at his native place. He died in good circumstances, at his house of New Place, and was buried in the great church of Stratford. Shakspeare's lesser poems seem deserving of more attention than they have usually obtained.
TAKE, oh! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain !
Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears:
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee!
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