The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 82

I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste, That I no more would court The joys which seem when they are past As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find: I make my oaths when she's severe, But break them when she's kind.

John Oldmixon [1673-1742]

THE TOUCH-STONE

A fool and knave with different views For Julia's hand apply; The knave to mend his fortune sues, The fool to please his eye.

Ask you how Julia will behave, Depend on't for a rule, If she's a fool she'll wed the knave-- If she's a knave, the fool.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]

AIR From "The Duenna"

I ne'er could any l.u.s.ter see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip.

Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?

I will own the color true When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?

I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again.

Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh?

I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

"I TOOK A HANSOM ON TO-DAY"

I took a hansom on to-day, For a round I used to know-- That I used to take for a woman's sake In a fever of to-and-fro.

There were the landmarks one and all-- What did they stand to show?

Street and square and river were there-- Where was the ancient woe?

Never a hint of a challenging hope Nor a hope laid sick and low, But a longing dead as its kindred sped A thousand years ago!

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

DA CAPO

Short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it-- Our poor little love lying cold.

Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it?

Nor the joys and pains of it told?

How fair was its face in the morning, How close its caresses at noon, How its evening grew chill without warning, Unpleasantly soon!

I can't say just how we began it-- In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; Fate took but an instant to plan it; It needs but a moment to die.

Yet--remember that first conversation, When the flowers you had dropped at your feet I restored. The familiar quotation Was--"Sweets to the sweet."

Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted My senses a whole season through.

If there was one soft charm that you wanted The violets lent it to you.

I whispered you, life was but lonely: A cue which you graciously took; And your eyes learned a look for me only-- A very nice look.

And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch; You said many things in a sigh, and Made a look express wondrously much.

We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, And laughed for no reason but fun; Irrational joys; but beguiling-- And all that is done!

We were idle, and played for a moment At a game that now neither will press: I cared not to find out what "No" meant; Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes."

Love is done with and dead; if there lingers A faint and indefinite ghost, It is laid with this kiss on your fingers-- A jest at the most.

'Tis a commonplace, stale situation, Now the curtain comes down from above On the end of our little flirtation-- A travesty romance; for Love, If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, Fell dead of the first kisses' pain: But one thing is left us now; that is-- Begin it again.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

SONG AGAINST WOMEN

Why should I sing of women And the softness of night, When the dawn is loud with battle And the day's teeth bite, And there's a sword to lay my hand to And a man's fight?

Why should I sing of women?...

There's life in the sun, And red adventure calling Where the roads run, And cheery brews at the tavern When the day's done.

I've sung of a hundred women In a hundred lands: But all their love is nothing But drifting sands.

I'm sick of their tears and kisses And their pale hands.

I've sung of a hundred women And their bought lips; But out on the clean horizon I can hear the whips Of the white waves las.h.i.+ng the bulwarks Of great, strong s.h.i.+ps:

And the trails that run to the westward Are shot with fire, And the winds hurl from the headland With ancient ire; And all my body itches With an old desire.

So I'll deal no more in women And the softness of night, But I'll follow the red adventure And the wind's flight; And I'll sing of the sea and of battle And of men's might.

Willard Huntington Wright [18

SONG OF THYRSIS