This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1846 Excerpt: ...his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if I but sing; He lends me every lovely thing; Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting; Ah, wanton!--will ye! Else I with roses every day Will whip ye hence, And bind ye when ye long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1846 Excerpt: ...his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if I but sing; He lends me every lovely thing; Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting; Ah, wanton!--will ye! Else I with roses every day Will whip ye hence, And bind ye when ye long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin: Alas! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me, --Spare not, but play thee. T. Lodoe OF HIS MISTRESS' FACE. And would you see my mistress face? It is a flowery garden place, Where knots of beauty have such grace, That all is work, and no where space. It is a sweet delicious morn, Where day is breeding, never born; It is a meadow yet unshorn, Which thousand flowers do adorn. It is the heaven's bright reflex, Weak to dazzle and to vex; It is the Idaea of her sex, Envy of whom doth world perplex. It is a face of death that smiles, Pleasing though it kills the whiles; Where Death and Love, in pretty wiles; Each other mutually beguiles. It is fair Beauty's freshest youth: It is the feigned Elisium's truth; The spring that wintered hearts renew'th, And this is that my soul pursu'th. CAMPION. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN 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? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood By your weak accents! what's your praise When Philom...
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