From John Cotgrave's Wit's Interpreter, 1655.
Two Kisses.
ONCE and no more: so said my life,
When in my arms inchained
She unto mine her lips did move,
And so my heart she gained.
Thus done, she saith, "Away I must
For fear of being missed;
Your heart's made over but in trust;"
And so again she kissed.
From Rawlinson MS. Poet. 199.
On Mrs. Beata Poole with Black Eyes.
IF shadows be the picture's excellence
And make it seem more lively to the sense;
If stars in the bright day do lose their light
And shine more glorious in the masque of night,
Why should you think, fair creature, that you lack
Perfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?
Or that your beauty that so far exceeds
The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,
That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,
Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?
Or is it fit that nature should have made
So bright a sun to shine without a shade?
It seems that nature, when she first did fancy
Your rare composure, studied necromancy;
And when to you those gifts she did impart,
She studied altogether the black art.
She drew the magic circle of your eyes,
And made the chain where, in your hair, she ties
Rebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,
Twining Meander-like to either sphere,
Mysterious figures are; and when you list,
Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.
O if in magic you have skill so far,
Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!
Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'd
On outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.
As by the spring-head we may often know
The nature of the streams that run below,
So your black hair and eyes do give direction
To make me think the rest of like perfection,—
The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,
That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,
That world-dividing gulf where whoso venters
With swelling sails and ravish'd senses enters
Into a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,
If my rude muse doth seem here to display
Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast
In praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.
Starved men know there s food, and blind men may,
Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.
A rover in the mark his arrows sticks
Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.
And if I could direct my shaft aright,
The black mark would I hit and miss the white.
From Choice Drollery, 1656.
Black eyes and enticing frowns.[23]