SEND back my long-stray’d eyes to me,été Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee: But if from you they’ve learnt such ill, To sweetly smile, And then beguile, Keep the deceivers, keep them still.
Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain; But if it has been taught by thine To forfeit both Its word and oath, Keep it, for then ’tis none of mine.
Yet send me back my heart and eyes, For I’ll know all thy falsities; That I one day may laugh, when thou Shalt grieve and mourn— Of one the scorn, Who proves as false as thou art now. _John Donne._
PACK clouds away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow: Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I’ll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale sing! To give my love good-morrow, To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them all I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! Sing, birds, in every furrow, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow. _Thomas Heywood._
SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheek with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be!
Should my foolish heart be pined ’Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be!
Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her merit’s value known, Make me quite forget my own? Be sure with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be!
’Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of richness find, Think what with them they would do Who, without them, dare to woo— And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be!
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne’er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be! _George Wither._