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SIR. W. A. L T E R. R. A. L E I (; H .

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PASSIONs are likened best to floods and streams,
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come :
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

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 !

Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,

When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter,

Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne’er so witty;

The 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 that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion


Shall I, like a 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 undervalue 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 ado
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 hair, or precious eyes:
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manner's 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 bel


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My Phillis hath the morning sun, At first to look upon her; My Phillis hath morn-waking birds, Her risings still to honour. My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers, That smile when she treads on them ; And Phillis hath a gallant flock, That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath too hard a heart, Alas, that she should have it ! It yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it: Sweet sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan ; Sweet birds, when you sing to her. To yield some pity, woo her ; Sweet flowers, that she treads on, Tell her her beauty deads one. And if in life her love she will agree me, Pray her before I die she will come see me.


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ON a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet :

For that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,
Fringéd all about with gold,

Where doth sit the fairest fair,
That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherd's joy:

She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see :

This is 'pse qua, the which
There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire 2
Who would not this saint adore ?

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