Part 92

George Augustus Baker [1849-1906]

THE IRONY OF LOVE

"SIGH NO MORE, LADIES" From "Much Ado About Nothing"

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

A RENUNCIATION

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

Edward Vere [1550-1604]

A SONG

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From Love's imperial chain, Take warning, and be taught by me, To avoid the enchanting pain; Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove, To careless seamen, hidden rocks, To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize; The snake's beneath the flower: Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, That tasted quiet more? How faithless is the lovers' joy! How constant is their care The kind with falsehood to destroy, The cruel, with despair.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwell: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]

TO AN INCONSTANT

I loved thee once; I'll love no more, - Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That it thou might elsewhere enthrall: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, - Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]

ADVICE TO A GIRL