The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 59

PIOUS SELINDA

Pious Selinda goes to prayers, If I but ask her favor; And yet the silly fool's in tears If she believes I'll leave her; Would I were free from this restraint, Or else had hopes to win her: Would she could make of me a saint, Or I of her a sinner.

William Congreve [1670-1729]

FAIR HEBE

Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design To escape from her charms, and to drown them in wine, I tried it; but found, when I came to depart, The wine in my head, and still love in my heart.

I repaired to my Reason, entreated her aid; Who paused on my case and each circ.u.mstance weighed, Then gravely p.r.o.nounced, in return to my prayer, That "Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!"

"That's a truth," replied I, "I've no need to be taught; I came for your counsel to find out a fault."

"If that's all," quoth Reason, "return as you came; To find fault with Hebe, would forfeit my name."

What hopes then, alas! of relief from my pain, While, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein?

My Senses surprised, in her favor took arms; And Reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

John West [1693-1766]

A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND From "The Contrivances"

Genteel in personage, Conduct, and equipage, n.o.ble by heritage, Generous and free: Brave, not romantic; Learned, not pedantic; Frolic, not frantic; This must he be.

Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining, Engaging and new.

Neat, but not finical; Sage, but not cynical; Never tyrannical, But ever true.

Henry Carey [?--1743]

"PHILLADA FLOUTS ME"

O what a plague is love!

How shall I bear it?

She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it.

She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a s.h.i.+p saileth.

Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day!

Phillada flouts me.

At the fair yesterday She did pa.s.s by me; She looked another way And would not spy me: I wooed her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine-- He might entreat her.

With Daniel she did dance, On me she looked askance: O thrice unhappy chance!

Phillada flouts me.

Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me!

I am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me!

She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattress beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it.

And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart!

Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou l.u.s.t, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries.

Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin-- Yet all's not worth a pin!

Phillada flouts me.

In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses.

Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly.

But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laughed at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favors me greatly.

One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those?

Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penned in a meadow, I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.

Unknown

"WHEN MOLLY SMILES"

When Molly smiles beneath her cow, I feel my heart--I can't tell how; When Molly is on Sunday dressed, On Sundays I can take no rest.

What can I do? On worky days I leave my work on her to gaze.

What shall I say? At sermons, I Forget the text when Molly's by.

Good master curate, teach me how To mind your preaching and my plow: And if for this you'll raise a spell, A good fat goose shall thank you well.

Unknown

CONTENTIONS

It was a lordling's daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be; Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see Her fancy fell a-turning.

Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: To put in practice either, alas! it was a spite Unto the silly damsel.

But one must be refused: more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain; For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas! she could not help it.