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Why then should I seek farther store,
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.

SONG.

Phillis, let's shun the common fate,
And let our love ne'er turn to hate.
I'll doat no longer than I can,
Without being called a faithless man.
When we begin to want discourse,
And kindness seems to taste of force,
As freely as we met we'll part,
Each one possessed of their own heart.
Thus, whilst rash fools themselves undo,
We'll game, and give off savers too;
So equally the match we'll make,
Both shall be glad to draw the stake.
A smile of thine shall make my bliss,
I will enjoy thee in a kiss.

If from this height our kindness fall,
We'll bravely scorn to love at all.
If thy affection first decay,

I will the blame on Nature lay.
Alas! what cordial can remove
The hasty fate of dying Love?
Thus we will all the world excel,
In loving, and in parting well.

TO CHLORIS.

Chloris, I can not say your eyes
Did my unwary heart surprise;
Nor will I swear it was your face,
Your shape, or any nameless grace;

For you are so entirely fair,

To love a part injustice were.

No drowning man can know which drop
Of water his last breath did stop:
So when the stars in heaven appear,
And join to make the night look clear,
The light we no one's bounty call,
But the obliging gift of all.

He that does lips or hands adore,
Deserves them only, and no more:
But I love all, and every part,
And nothing less can ease my heart.
Cupid that lover weakly strikes,
Who can express what 't is he likes.

SONG.

Love still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose:
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalmed in clearest days,
And in rough weather tossed;

They wither under cold delays,

Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear,
In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,

And are so long withstood,

So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.

"Tis cruel to prolong a pain,
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,
Offends the wingéd boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears
Perhaps would not remove;

And if I gazed a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.

SONG.

Phillis, men say that all my vows
Are to thy fortune paid;
Alas! my heart he little knows,
Who thinks my love a trade.

Were I of all these woods the lord,
One berry from thy hand
More real pleasure would afford

Than all my large command.

My humble love has learned to live,
On what the nicest maid,

Without a conscious blush, may give

Beneath the myrtle shade.

ANDREW MARVELL.

1620-1678.

[“Miscellaneous Poems?" (?) 1681.]

THE GALLERY.

CHLORA, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contrived it well;
How all its several lodgings lie,
Composed into one gallery,

And the great arras-hangings, made
Of various faces, by are laid,
That, for all furniture, you'll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here thou art painted in the dress
Of an inhuman murtheress,
Examining upon our hearts,

(Thy fertile shop of cruel arts,)
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorned a tyrant's cabinet,

Of which the most tormenting are,
Black eyes, red lips, and curled hair.
But, on the other side, thou 'rt drawn
Like to Aurora in the dawn,
When in the east she slumbering lies,
And stretches out her milky thighs,

While all the morning quire does sing,
And manna falls and roses spring,
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show'st,
Vexing thy restless lover's ghost,
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave,
Divining thence, with horrid care,
How long thou shalt continue fair,

And (when informed) them throw'st away,
To be the greedy vulture's prey.

But, against that, thou sittest afloat,
Like Venus in her pearly boat;

The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,
Betwixt the air and water fly;

Or, if some rolling wave appears,

A mass of ambergrease it bears,

Nor blows more wind than what may well

Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures, and a thousand more,

Of thee, my gallery do store,

In all the forms thou canst invent,

Either to please me, or torment;
For thou alone, to people me,
Art grown a numerous colony,
And a collection choicer far

Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.
But of these pictures, and the rest,
That at the entrance likes me best,
Where the same posture and the look
Remains with which I first was took;
A tender shepherdess, whose hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flowers from the green hill
To crown her head and bosom fill.

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