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Джон Харингтон / John Harrington
| Dear, I to thee this diamond commend Dear, I to thee this diamond commend, In which a model of thyself I send. How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth, So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth. The touch will try this ring of purest gold, My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold. That metal precious is, the stone is true, As true, and then how much more precious you. The gem is clear, and hath nor needs no foil, Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil. You'll deem this dear, because from me you have it, I deem your faith more dear, because you gave it. This pointed diamond cuts glass and steel, Your love's like force in my firm heart I feel. But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing, Where you my jewels multiply with bearing. Beauty Such colour had her face as when the sun Shines in a watery cloud in pleasant spring; And even as when the summer is begun The nightingales in boughs do sit and sing, So the blind god, whose force can no man shun Sits in her eyes, and thence his darts doth fling; Bathing his wings in her bright crystal streams, And sunning them in her rare beauties beams. In these he heads his golden-headed dart, In those he cooleth it, and tempereth so, He levels thence at good Oberto's heart, And to the head he draws it in his bow. Ingratitude Unthankfulness is that great sin, Which made the devil and his angels fall: Lost him and them the joys that they were in, And now in hell detains them bound in thrall. Of An Accident Of Saying Grace MY Mall, in your short absence from this place, Myself here dining at your mother's board, Your little son did thus begin his grace, The eyes of all things look on thee O Lord, And thou their food dost give them in due season. Peace boy (quoth I) not more of this a word, For in this place this grace hath little reason, Whenas we speak to God we must speak true, And though the meat be good in taste and season, This season for a dinner is not due, Then peace, I say, to lie to God is treason. Say on my boy (saith she) your father mocks, Clowns and not courtiers use to go by clocks. Courtiers by clocks (said I) and clowns by cocks. Now if your mother chide with me for this, Then you must reconcile us with a kiss. | |
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