Hark, All Ye Lovely Saints Above
Hark, all ye lovely saints above,
Diana hath agreed with Love,
His fiery weapon to remove. Fa la.
Do you not see
How they agree?
Then cease, fair ladies; why weep ye? Fa la.
See, see, your mistress bids you cease,
And welcome Love, with love's increase;
Diana hath procured your peace. Fa la.
Cupid hath sworn
His bow forlorn
To break and burn, ere ladies mourn. Fa la.
poem by Thomas Weelkes
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Related quotes
Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
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Sonnet: Beauty Of Her Face
For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
They that go with her humbly should combine
To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
So perfect is the beauty of her face
That is begets in no wise any sigh
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.
poem by Dante Alighieri
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Sonnet XLIX: How Long
How long shall I in mine affliction mourn,
A burden to myself, distress'd in mind?
When shall my interdicted hopes return
From out despair wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow charg'd with disdain
Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart?
When shall my faith the happiness attain
To break the ice that hath congeal'd her heart?
Unto herself, herself my love doth summon,
If love in her hath any power to move,
And let her tell me as she is a woman
Whether my faith hath not deserv'd her love.
I know she cannot but must needs confess it,
Yet deigns not with one simple sign t'express it.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Love's Phases
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly--
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling--
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,--
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Divine Mistress
In Nature's pieces still I see
Some error that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was fram'd by hands far more divine,
For she hath every beauteous line:
Yet I had been far happier,
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet I confess I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me:
You gods, teach her some more humanity.
poem by Thomas Carew
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Sonnet 70: My Muse May well Grudge
My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy,
If still I force her in sad rimes to creep:
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy:
Trebles sing high, as well as basses deep:
Grief but Love's winter livery is, the boy
Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep.
Come then, my Muse, show thou height of delight
In well-rais'd notes, my pen the best it may
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
Cease, eager Muse; peace, pen, for my sake stay;
I give you here my hand for truth of this:
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.
poem by Philip Sidney
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On A Watch Made By A Blacksmith
A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art
Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake
Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake
In searching every wire, and subtile sphere
Which his industrious skill hath order'd theire:
It scarce outswells a nut, and is soe light
A Ladies eare might well indure the weight.
Twas for a Mistrisse: pitty not his owne,
And yet not pitty when her worth is knowne,
Or els his love that ownes her: Either's name
Is carv'd within the plates: the witty frame
Hath made their letters kiss for them, while they
Have like the watch one pulse, one sympathy.
poem by William Strode
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Licia Sonnets 34
Pale are my looks, forsaken of my life,
Cinders my bones, consume'd with thy flame,
Floods are my tears, to end this burning strife,
And yet I sigh for to increase the same;
I mourn alone because alone I burn;
Who doubts of this, then let him learn to love;
Her looks cold ice into a flame can turn,
As I distresséd in myself do prove.
Respect, fair Licia, what my torments are;
Count but the tithe both of my sighs and tears;
See how my love doth still increase my care,
And care's increase my life to nothing wears.
Send but a sigh my flame for to increase,
Or lend a tear and cause it so to cease.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Be My Mistress Short or Tall
Be my mistress short or tall
And distorted therewithall
Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose
Be her teeth ill hung or set
And her grinders black as jet
Be her cheeks so shallow too
As to show her tongue wag through
Hath she thin hair, hath she none
She's to me a paragon.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Sonnet VIII: Love's Lovers
Some ladies love the jewels in Love's zone,
And gold-tipped darts he hath for painless play
In idle scornful hours he flings away;
And some that listen to his lute's soft tone
Do love to vaunt the silver praise their own;
Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be they
Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday
And thank his wings to-day that he is flown.
My lady only loves the heart of Love:
Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath for thee
His bower of unimagined flower and tree:
There kneels he now, and all-anhungered of
Thine eyes grey-lit in shadowing hair above,
Seals with thy mouth his immortality.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Sir Richard's Song
(A. D. 1066)
I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over--
But now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner--
But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen City,
A nimble and naughty' page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my comrades in camp and highway
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way--
Tell them England hath taken me!
Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamed--
Seeing England hath taken me!
Howso great man's strength be reckoned,
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second-
And Love in England hath taken me!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Who Hath The Courage?
Who hath courage? Not the hero
Leading in the strife,
To receive a nation's plaudits,
For his waste of life.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He alone who dares
Act up to his own convictions,
And the right declares.
Who hath courage? Not the tyrant
Boasting of his skill,
To enslave and bind his fellow
At his simple will.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that doth proclaim,
Unto all their right to freedom,
Every man the same.
Who hath courage? Not the sober,
Or untempted one,
Who hath never had his stomach
Eaten out by rum.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He who though he may
Have been using poison freely,
Throws the cup away.
Who hath courage? Not the daring,
Reckless pugilist,
Who for wager smites a brother,
With uplifted fist.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that won't resent
Every little insult given
With a base intent.
poem by Benjamin Cutler Clark
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God hath promised
God hath not promised
Skies always blue,
Flower-strewn pathways
All our lives through.
God hath not promised
Sun without rain.
Joy without sorrow,
Peace without pain.
But God hath promised
strength for the day
Rest for the labor,
Light for the way.
Grace for the trials,
Help from above,
Unfailing sympathy
Undying love…
poem by Katie Evans
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Weep On, Weep On
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past,
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
Weep on -- perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name,
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruin'd isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?
"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love.
But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
And man profaned what God had given;
Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt in heaven!"
poem by Thomas Moore
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Ladies Man
Well, Ive heard of heartbreakers
But you take the cake
Ladies man
You could charm the diamonds
Off a rattlesnake
Ladies man
Ladies bring it on over
When you give em the glance
They dont stand a chance
First, you unfold them
Then you pigeon-hole em
Ladies man
Well it sure takes a lot of
Good natured self-control
Ladies man
When Im so hot for you and
Youre so cold, so cold
Ladies man
Why do you keep on trying to
Make a man of me
Couldnt you just love me--
Like you love cocaine
Cocaine head games
Cross my heart I swear
Im not trying to trick you
No tricks
Ladies man
Its just a straight ahead feeling
I have for you
Nothing slick
Ladies man
I guess you learn to refuse
What you think you cant handle
Youre acting like a vandal
Wrecking the dream
At the first bad scene
Ladies man
Ladies man
Ladies man
Ladies man
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Phillis the Faire Sheeperdesse
My Phillis hath the morninge Sunne,
at first to looke upon her:
And Phillis hath morne-waking birds,
her risinge still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-featherd flowres,
that smile when she treads on them:
And Phillis hath a gallant flocke,
that leapes since she dooth owne them.
But Phillis hath too hard a hart,
alas, that she should have it:
It yeelds no mercie to desert,
nor grace to those that crave it.
Sweete Sunne, when thou look'st on,
pray her regard my moane!
Sweete birds, when you sing to her,
to yeeld some pitty, woo her!
Sweet flowers that she treads on,
tell her, her beauty deads one.
And if in life her love she nill agree me,
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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The Last Song of Sappho
SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-'Alone, alone !'
Yet send me back one other word,
Ye tones that never cease !
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?
Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts-and will the wave reply ?
Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride !
I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.
And yet I loved that earth so well,
With all its lovely things!
-Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?
-Let them lie silent at my feet !
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.
Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine-
-With a lone heart, a weary frame-
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine !
Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.
Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come!
I, with this winged nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought-
Alone I come-oh ! give me peace, dark sea!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Licia Sonnets 09
Love was laid down, all weary fast asleep,
Whereas my love his armor took away;
The boy awaked, and straight began to weep,
But stood amazed, and knew not what to say.
"Weep not, my boy," said Venus to her son,
"Thy weapons none can wield, but thou alone;
Licia the fair, this harm to thee hath done,
I saw her here, and presently was gone;
She will restore them, for she hath no need
To take thy weapons where thy valour lies;
For men to wound the Fates have her decreed,
With favour, hands, with beauty, and with eyes."
No, Venus, no: she scorns them, credit me;
But robbed thy son that none might care for thee
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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The Curse
WHOEVER guesses, thinks, or dreams, he knows
Who is my mistress, wither by this curse;
Him, only for his purse
May some dull whore to love dispose,
And then yield unto all that are his foes;
May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorn,
Forswear to others, what to her he hath sworn,
With fear of missing, shame of getting, torn.
Madness his sorrow, gout his cramps, may he
Make, by but thinking who hath made him such;
And may he feel no touch
Of conscience, but of fame, and be
Anguish'd, not that 'twas sin, but that 'twas she;
Or may he for her virtue reverence
One that hates him only for impotence,
And equal traitors be she and his sense.
May he dream treason, and believe that he
Meant to perform it, and confesses, and die,
And no record tell why;
His sons, which none of his may be,
Inherit nothing but his infamy;
Or may he so long parasites have fed,
That he would fain be theirs whom he hath bred,
And at the last be circumcised for bread.
The venom of all stepdames, gamesters' gall,
What tyrants and their subjects interwish,
What plants, mine, beasts, fowl, fish,
Can contribute, all ill, which all
Prophets or poets spake, and all which shall
Be annex'd in schedules unto this by me,
Fall on that man; For if it be a she
Nature beforehand hath out-cursèd me.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To A Younger Child
A Similar Occasion, 17 September, 1825.
Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying;
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying;
Violets are gone from the grassy dell,
With the cowslip-cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath passed away?
Yet happy, fair boy! is thy natal day.
For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child!
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but this will stay?
Happy and bright is thy natal day.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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