When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Fishes that tipple in the deep When, linnet-like confinéd, I Stone walls do not a prison make, That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love Angels alone, that soar above, Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate And are alive i' the skies, Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. Colonel Lovelace CI ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER HY so pale and wan, fond lover? WHY Prythee, why so pale? Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prythee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Prythee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, A SUPPLICATION AWAKE, awake, my Lyter's humble tale In sounds that may prevail; And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. CIII A. Cowley THE MANLY HEART HALL I, wasting in despair, SHA Die because a woman 's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care Be she fairer than the day What care I how fair she be? Shall my foolish heart be pined If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Where they want of riches find, And unless that mind I see, Great or good, or kind or fair, For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? G. Wither CIV MELANCHOLY HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly : There's nought in this life sweet If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy ! |