[Wither’s Song, or “Sonnet,” appeared first in his “Fidelia” in 1615, and later with some changes in “Fair Virtue,” 1622. Jonson’s parody, here given, came out in a Collection of Verses, in 1620.] SHALL I mine affections slack, ’Cause I see a woman’s Black? Or myself, with care cast down, ’Cause I see a woman Brown? Be She blacker than the night, Or the blackest jet in sight! If She be not so to me, What care I, how Black She be? Shall my foolish heart be burst, ’Cause I see a woman ’s curst? Or a thwarting hoggish nature Joinèd in as bad a feature? Be She curst, or fiercer than Brutish beast, or savage man! If She be not so to me, What care I, how Curst She be? Shall a woman’s vices make Me her vices quite forsake? Or her faults to me make known, Make me think that I have none? Be She of the most accurst, And deserve the name of worst! If She be not so to me, What care I, how Bad She be? ’Cause her fortunes seem too low, Shall I therefore let her go? He that bears an humble mind And with riches can be kind. Think how kind a heart he ’d have, If he were some servile slave! And if that same mind I see, What care I, how Poor She be? Poor, or Bad, or Curst, or Black, I will ne’er the more be slack! If she hate me (then believe!) She shall die, ere I will grieve! If She like me, when I woo; I can like and love her too! If that She be fit for me! What care I, what others be?
Answer to Master Wither’s Song, “Shall I, Wasting in Despair”
More from Poet
-
From “The Vision of Delight” BREAK, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud, And spread thy purple wings, Now all thy figures are allowed, And various shapes of things; Create of airy forms a stream, It must have blood, and naught of phlegm; And though it be a waking dream, Yet let it like an odor...
-
From the Greek of Philostratus From “The Forest” DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I ’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not...
-
See the chariot at hand here of Love! Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty. And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to...
-
From “Epicœne; or, the Silent Woman,” Act I. Sc. 1. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed,— Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face,...
-
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.* * * * * Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My...