Why do we love these things which we call women,
Which are like feathers blown with every wind,
Regarding least those which do most esteem them,
And most deceitful when they seem most kind;
And all the virtue that their beauty graces,
It is but painted like unto their faces?

Their greatest glory is in rich attire,
Which is extracted from some hopeful livers
Whose wits and wealth are bent to their desire,
When they regard the gift more than the givers;
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,

I
Whoso in love would bear the bell,
Needs must he prank him gallantly,
Swagger and ruffle it, bold and snell,
And when to his lady's sight comes he,
Don cloth of gold and embroidery;
For ladies liken a goodly show.
This should serve well; but, by Marie,
Not all can nick it that will, heigho!
II

Once on a season in love I fell
With a lady gracious and sweet to see,
Who spoke me fair, that she liked me well
And gladly would hearken to my plea,
But first I must give to her for fee
Fifty gold crowns, not less nor mo'.

The white-rose garland at her feet,
— The crown of laurel at her head,
Her noble life on earth complete,
— Lay her in the last low bed
For the slumber calm and deep:
" He giveth His beloved sleep. "

Soldiers find their fittest grave
— In the field whereon they died;
So her spirit pure and brave
— Leaves the clay it glorified
To the land for which she fought
With such grand impassioned thought.

Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,
— She in well-loved Tuscan earth;
Finding all their death's long home

Wenn ich in deine Augen seh'

Whene'er I look into your eyes
Then all my grief and sorrow flies;
And when I kiss your mouth, oh then
I am made well and strong again.

And when I lean upon your breast
My soul is soothed with godlike rest;
But when you swear, " I love but thee! "
Then I must weep — and bitterly.

When you are very old, at evening
You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day.
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing."
None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
Albeit with her weary task foredone,
But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,
While you beside the fire, a grandame gray,
My love, your pride, remember and regret;
Ah, love me, love, we may be happy yet,

Wenn zwei von einander scheiden

When two who love are parted,
They talk, as friend to friend,
Clasp hands and weep a little,
And sigh without an end.

We did not weep, my darling,
Nor sigh " Why must this be . . . "
The tears, the sighs, the anguish
Came later — and to me.

When thou to my true-love com'st
Greet her from me kindly;
When she asks thee how I fare?
Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.

When she asks, "What! Is he sick?"
Say, dead!--and when for sorrow
She begins to sob and cry,
Say, I come to-morrow.

When the moon's splendour shines in naked heaven,
Stand thou and gaze beneath the open sky.
See how that radiance from her lamp is riven,
And in one splendour foldeth gloriously
Two that have loved, and now divided far,
Bound by love's bond, in heart together are.
What though thy lover's eyes in vain desire thee,
Seek for love's face, and find that face denied?
Let that light be between us for a token;
Take this poor verse that love and faith inscribe.
Love, art thou true? and fast love's chain about thee?

VERSE

When the little bluebird,
Who has never said a word,
Starts to sing " Spring, spring, "
When the little bluebell,
In the bottom of the dell,
Starts to ring " Ding, ding, "
When the little blue clerk,
In the middle of his work,
Starts a tune to the moon up above,
It is nature, that's all,
Simply telling us to fall
In love.

REFRAIN 1

And that's why Chinks do it, Japs do it,
Up in Lapland, little Lapps do it,
Let's do it, let's fall in love.

When the heavens with stars are gleaming
Like a diadem of light,
And the moon's pale rays are streaming,
Decking earth with radiance bright;
When the autumn's winds are sighing,
O'er the hill and o'er the lea,
When the summer time is dying,
Wanderer, wilt thou think of me?

When thy life is crowned with gladness.
And thy home with love is blest,
Not one brow o'ercast with sadness,
Not one bosom of unrest —
When at eventide reclining,
At thy hearthstone gay and free,
Think of one whose life is pining,