William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
Hence Away, You SirensGeorge Wither (15881667)
H
And unclasp your wanton arms;
Sug’red words shall ne’er deceive me
Though you prove a thousand charms.
Fie, fie, forbear;
No common snare
Could ever my affection chain;
Your painted baits
And poor deceits
Are all bestowed on me in vain.
Neither shall a snowy breast,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest;
Go, go, display
Your beauty’s ray
To some o’ersoon enamoured swain:
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vain.
Turn away your tempting eyes,
Show not me a naked beauty,
Those impostures I despise;
My spirit loathes
Where gaudy clothes
And feignèd oaths may love obtain:
I love her so
Whose look swears no,
That all your labours will be vain.
Which on every breast are worn,
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touchèd thorn?
I can go rest
On her sweet breast
That is the pride of Cynthia’s train;
Then stay your tongues,
Your mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vain.
Where each peasant mates with him;
Shall I haunt the throngèd vallies,
Whilst there’s noble hills to climb?
No, no, though clowns
Are scared with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I’ll prove,
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vain.
With the greatest-fairest she
If another shared those graces
Which had been bestowed on me.
I gave that one
My love, where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain.
Your fickle hearts
Makes tears, and arts
And all, bestowed on me in vain.
Where each lustful lad may woo;
Give me her, whose sun-like beauty
Buzzards dare not soar unto:
She, she it is
Affords that bliss,
For which I would refuse no pain;
But such as you,
Fond fools, adieu,
You seek to captive me in vain.
And disdained my looking on,
But that coy one in the winning,
Proves a true one, being won.
Whate’er betide
She’ll ne’er divide
The favour she to me shall deign;
But your fond love
Will fickle prove,
And all that trust in you are vain.
And for love employ my breath,
She I court shall be a coy one
Though I win her with my death.
A favour there
Few aim at dare;
And if, perhaps, some lover plain;
She is not won
Nor I undone
By placing of my love in vain.
Seek no more to work my harms,
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proof against your charms:
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart that constant shall remain;
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.