The neighb'ring mountains which you shall Woo to oppress you with their weight, Disdainful will deny to fall; By a sad death to ease your fate. In vain some midnight storm at sea Death, at the sight of which you start, No sorrow then shall enter in This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin ANONYMOUS. Probably of the Seventeenth Century. IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. T is not beauty I demand, IT A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips, that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed,— A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed, There's many a white hand holds an urn, With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows, there's nought within; Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly, My earthly comforter! whose love Hers could not stay, for sympathy. |