T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
Ignoto
By Christopher Marlowe (15641593)I LOVE thee not for sacred chastity. | |
Who loves for that? nor for thy sprightly wit: | |
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty, | |
Which makes thee in perfection’s throne to sit. | |
I love thee not for thy enchanting eye, | 5 |
Thy beauty, ravishing perfection: | |
I love thee not for unchaste luxury, | |
Nor for thy body’s fair proportion. | |
I love thee not for that my soul doth dance, | |
And leap with pleasure when those lips of thine, | 10 |
Give musical and graceful utterance, | |
To some (by thee made happy) poet’s line. | |
I love thee not for voice or slender small, | |
But wilt thou know wherefore? Fair sweet, for all. | |
’Faith wench! I cannot court thy sprightly eyes, | 15 |
With the base viol placed between my thighs: | |
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing, | |
Nor run upon a high stretched minikin. | |
I cannot whine in puling elegies. | |
Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies: | 20 |
I am not fashioned for these amorous times, | |
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes: | |
I cannot dally, caper, dance and sing, | |
Oiling my saint with supple sonneting: | |
I cannot cross my arms, or sigh “Ah me,” | 25 |
“Ah me forlorn!” egregious foppery! | |
I cannot buss thy fill, play with thy hair, | |
Swearing by Jove, “Thou art most debonnaire!” | |
Not I, by cock! but I shall tell thee roundly, | |
Hark in thine ear, zounds I can (——) thee soundly. | 30 |
Sweet wench, I love thee; yet I will not sue, | |
Or show my love as musky courtiers do; | |
I’ll not carouse a health to honour thee, | |
In this same bezzling drunken courtesy: | |
And when all’s quaffed, eat up my bousinglass, | 35 |
In glory that I am thy servile ass. | |
Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock, | |
As some sworn peasant to a female mock. | |
Well-featured lass, thou know’st I love thee dear, | |
Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear, | 40 |
To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there: | |
Not for thy love will I once gnash a brick, | |
Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick. | |
But by the chaps of hell, to do thee good, | |
I’ll freely spend my thrice decocted blood. | 45 |