Fair Hand! That Can on Virgin-Paper Write

On My Lady Isabella Playing on the Lute
Such moving sounds, from such a careless touch,
So unconcern'd her self, and we so much!
What Art is this, that with so little Pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our Spirits reigns!
The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,
And tell their Joy for ev'ry Kiss aloud :
Small Force there needs to make them tremble so ;
Touch'd by that Hand who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the Ear,
Empties his Quiver on the list'ning Deer ;
Musick so softens and disarms the Mind,
That not an Arrow does Resistance find.
Thus the fair Tyrant Celebrates the Prize,
And acts her self the Triumph of her Eyes.
So Nero once, with Harp in hand, survey'd
His Flaming Rome, and as it Burnt he Play'd.

Of a Tree Cut in Paper

Fair hand! that can on virgin-paper write,

Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;

Whose travel o’er that silver field does show

Like track of leverets in morning snow.

Love’s image thus in purest minds is wrought,

Without a spot or blemish to the thought.

Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil,

Without the help of colours or of oil!

For though a paitner boughs and leaves can make,

‘Tis you alone can makethem bend and shake;

Whose breath salutes your new-created grove,
Like southern winds, and makes it gently move.

Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you

Can make the motion and the forest too.

Edmund Waller

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?--
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ail prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?--
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her--
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The Devil take her!

Sir John Suckling

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