Thou art my life, my love, my heart, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. R. Herrick XCVII Love not me for comely grace, Keep therefore a true woman's eye, Anon. XCVIII Not, Celia, that I juster am For I would change each hour, like them, But I am tied to very thee All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find For the whole sex can but afford Why then should I seek further store, When change itself can give no more, Sir C. Sedley XCIX TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON When Love with unconfinéd wings And my divine Althea brings When flowing cups run swiftly round Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confinéd, I Stone walls do not a prison make, Colonel Lovelace C TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS If to be absent were to be 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, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: 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 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Will, if looking well can't move her, Prythee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Prythee, why so mute? G Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, If of herself she will not love, The D-1 take her! Sir F. Suckling CII A SUPPLICATION Awake, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: 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 Is useless here, since thou art only found And she to wound, but not to cure. My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! 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. A. Cowley CIII THE MANLY HEART Shall I, wasting in despair, 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 'Cause her fortune seems too high, |