Somebody ’s courting somebody,
Somewhere or other to-night;
Somebody ’s whispering to somebody,
Somebody ’s listening to somebody,
Under this clear moonlight.
Near the bright river’s flow,
Running so still and slow,
Talking so soft...
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I. Her RESPECTABLE PAPA’S
“MY dear, be sensible! Upon my word
This—for a woman even—is absurd;
His income ’s not a hundred pounds, I know.
He ’s not worth loving.”—“But I love him so!”
II. Her MOTHER’S
“You silly child, he is well made and tall;...
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From Tom to Ned
DEAR Ned, no doubt you ’ll be surprised
When you receive and read this letter.
I ’ve railed against the marriage state;
But then, you see, I knew no better.
I ’ve met a lovely girl out here;
Her manner is—well—very winning:...
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Originally Printed in 1569
LOVE me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold,—
Not too backward, nor too bold;
Love that lasteth till ’t is...
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AND 1 there they sat, a-popping corn,
John Styles and Susan Cutter—
John Styles as fat as any ox,
And Susan fat as butter.
And there they sat and shelled the corn,
And raked and stirred the fire,
And talked of different kinds of corn,...
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I ’d been away from her three years,—about that,
And I returned to find my Mary true;
And though I ’d question her, I did not doubt that
It was unnecessary so to do.
’T was by the chimney-corner we were sitting:
“Mary,” said I, “have you been...
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One eve of beauty, when the sun
Was on the streams of Guadalquiver,
To gold converting, one by one,
The ripples of the mighty river,
Beside me on the bank was seated
A Seville girl, with auburn hair,
And eyes that might the world have cheated...
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From a MS. Temp. Henry VIII.
AH, my sweet sweeting;
My little pretty sweeting,
My sweeting will I love wherever I go;
She is so proper and pure,
Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,
There is none such, you may be sure,...
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Early on a sunny morning, while the lark was singing sweet,
Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of lightly tripping feet.
’T was a lowly cottage maiden going,—why, let young hearts tell,—
With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water from the well.
Shadows...
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His hand at last! By his own fingers writ,
I catch my name upon the wayworn sheet:
His hand—oh, reach it to me quick! And yet,
Scarce can I hold, so fast my pulses beat.
O feast of soul! O banquet richly spread!
O passion-lettered scroll from o’er...
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