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If love come, he will enter
And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
But if she whom love doth honour
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him
By having him confined ;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind ;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phoenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her
To give o'er her prey ;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.

ANON

81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit

As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget

No happiness or pain !

When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire

Would take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay

Like metals in a mine;
Age from no face takes more away

Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,

And center'd in my breast.

My passion with your beauty grew,

While Cupid at my heart
Still as his mother favour'd you

Threw a new flaming dart:
Each gloried in their wanton part ;

To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

SIR C. SEDLEY

82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That
age

is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ,
But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

R. HERRICK.

83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field ;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

COLONEL LOVELACE.

84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year

As if the spring were all your own, What are you, when the Rose is blown ? Ye curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise ?

So when my Mistress shall be seen

In sweetness of her looks and mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?

SIR H. WOTTON.

85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. Daughter to that good earl, once President Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till the sad breaking of that parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Chæronea, fatal to liberty, Kill’d with report that old man eloquent ;Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish’d, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

J. Milton.

86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.

It is not Beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair :

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :-

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds : nay what are lips ?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows there's nought within ;
They are but empty cells for pride ;
He who the Syren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

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