INCONSTANCY OF LOVE.

So glides along a wanton brook
With gentle pace into the main ;
Courting the banks with amorous look
He never means to see again :
And so does Fortune use to smile

Upon the short-lived fav'rite's face,
Whose swelling hopes she does beguile,
And always casts him in the race:
And so doth the fantastick boy,

The god of the ill-managed flames, Who ne'er kept word in promised joy To lover nor to loving dames:

So all alike will constant prove,

Both Fortune, running streams, and Love.

LOVE HATH NO PHYSICIAN.

A RESTLESS lover I espy'd,

That went from place to place;

Lay down and turned from side to side,

And sometimes on his face;

And when that med'cines were applied,

In hope of intermission,

As one that felt no ease, he cried,

"Has Cupid no physician?"

What do the ladies with their looks,
Their kisses, and their smiles?
Can no receipts in those fair books
Repair their former spoils ?
But they complain as well as we,
Their pains have no remission;
And when both sexes wounded be,
"Hath Cupid no physician?"

Have we such palsies and such pains,
Such fevers and such fits,

No quintessential chymick grains,
No Esculapian wits,

No creature can beneath the sun

Prevail in opposition?

And when all wonders can be done, "Hath Cupid no physician?"

Into what poison do they dip
Their arrows and their darts,
That, touching but an eye or lip,
The pain goes to our hearts?
But now I see, before I get

Into their inquisition,

That Death had never surgeon yet,

Nor Cupid a physician.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

JOHN FLETCHER, born 1576, died 1625.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT, born 1585, died 1615.

SONG.

[In "The Captain."]

TELL me, dearest, what is love?

"'Tis a lightning from above; 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire;

'Tis a boy they call Desire;

'Tis a grave
Gapes to have

Those poor fools that long to prove."

Tell me more, are women true?

66 Yes, some are, and some as you.

Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change;

And till troth

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew."

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?

"Yes, and sicken sore, but live,

And be wise, and delay,

When you men are as wise as they."

Then I see

Faith will be

Never, till they both believe.

SONG.

[In "A Wife for a Month."]

LET those complain that feel Love's cruelty,
And in sad legends write their woes :
With roses gently he has corrected me;
My war is without rage or blows;
My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires,
A hope springs up inflam'd with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms and sighs all day,
Reckoning the torments of my hell,
And flinging my sweet joys away.

I am call'd home again to quiet peace;
My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet what is living in her eye,

Or being bless'd with her sweet tongue,

If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve*, a pleasing wrong.

To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.

* A fetter.

ROBERT HERRICK,

Born 1591, died about 1664.

TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIM NEITHER
TOYING OR TALKING.

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.

Deep waters noise-less are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when Love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

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.