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I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

A Lecture upon the Shadow.
I love thee freely as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

Stand still, and I will read to thee
I love thee with the passion put to use

A lecture, Love, in love's philosophy.

These three hours that we have spent
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

Walking here, two shadows went
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Along with us, which we ourselves produced : Smiles, tears, of all my life!— and, if God choose,

But, now the sun is just above our head, I shall but love thee better after death.

We do those shadows tread,

And to brave clearness all things are reduced.

So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did and shadows flow

From us and from our cares; but now it is not so. To One who would make a Confession.

That love hath not attained the high'st degree, Oh! leave the past to bury its own dead.

Which is still diligent lest others see;
The past is naught to us, the present all.
What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed? We shall new shadows make the other way.

Except our loves at this noon stay,
What need of ghost to grace a festival ?

As the first were made to blind I would not, if I could, those days recall,

Others, these which come behind Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread,

Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, The lamps are lit, and music plays withal.

If our loves faint, and westwardly. decline, Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.

To me thou falsely thine, This island is our home. Around it roar

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits, and seas.

The morning shadows wear away, What matter in what wreck we reached the shore,

But these grow longer all the day;
So we both reached it? We can mock at these.

But, oh! love's day is short, if love decay.
Oh! leave the past, if past indeed there be ;
I would not know it; I would know but thec.

Love is a growing or full constant light,
WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT. And his short minute, after noon, is night.


Phillida and Corydon.
In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troupe of damsells playing,
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying;

To One Excusing his Poverty. Ah! love, impute it not to me a sin

That my poor soul thus beggared comes to thee. My soul a pilgrim was, in search of thine,

And met these accidents by land and sea.

The world was hard, and took its usury, Its toll for each new night in each new inn;

And every road had robber bands to fee; And all, even kindness, must be paid in coin. Behold my scrip is empty, my heart bare.

I give thee nothing who my all would give. My pilgrimage is finished, and I fare

Bare to my death, unless with thee I live. Ah! give, love, and forgive that I am poor. Ah! take me to thy arms and ask no more.


Where anon by a wood side,
Whenas Maye was in his pride,
I espied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, God wot;
He wold love, and she wold not.
She sayd never man was trewe;
He sayes none was false to you.

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Tell me, my heart. WAEN Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice but hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love 1

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Which you call my shafts. And see !
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheeks of milk and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in.
And above her even chin,
Have you placed the bank of kisses
Where, you say, men gather blisses,
Ripened with a breath more sweet,
Than when flowers and west winds meet.
Nay, her white and polished neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain !
And between each rising breast
Lies the valley called my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After Alight; and put new strings
To my shafts! Her very name,
With my mother's is the same.”
“I confess all,” I replied,
“And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waist,
All is Venus; save unchaste.
But, alas ! thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her sex; but couldst thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty still doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied.
Outward grace weak Love beguiles :
She is Venus when she smiles,
But she's Juno when she walks,
And Minerva when she talks."


When, fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ?


Wiscourse with Cupid. Noblest Charis, you that are Both my fortune and my star! And do govern more my blood, Than the various moon the flood ! Hear what late discourse of you Love and I have had ; and true. 'Mongst my muses finding me, Where he chanced your name to see Set, and to this softer strain: "Sure,” said he, “if I have brain, This here sung can be no other By description, but my mother! So hath Homer praised her hair; So Anacreon drawn the air Of her face, and made to rise, Just about her sparkling eyes, Both her brows, bent like my bow. By her looks I do her know,

to Celia.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

PHILOSTRATUS. (Greek.) Translation of Ben Jonson.


Say thou lov'st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive

While that life endures:
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth
As now, in my May of youth,

This my love assures.
Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life perséver;
Give me that, with true endeavor

I will it restore;
A suit of durance let it be
For all weathers; that for me,
For the land or for the sea,

Lasting evermore.
Winter's cold or Summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,

Never can rebel :
Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain
So to thee farewell !


She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be,
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me;
Oh! then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:
Fler very frowns are fairer far,
Than smiles of other maidens are.


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Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth. Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair!

Kill not him that vows to serve thee;
But perfume this neighboring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me;

'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which, being restrained, a heart is broken.



Such she is; and if you know

Such a one as I have sung;
Be she brown, or fair, or so

That she be but somewhat young;
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.


Beauty Clear and Fair.

BEAUTY clear and fair,

Where the air
Rather like a perfume dwells;

Where the violet and the rose

Their blue veins in blush disclose, And come to honor nothing else;

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf,
If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

Where to live near,

And planted there,
Is to live, and still live new;

Where to gain a favor is

More than light, perpetual bliss,Make me live by serving you !

Dear, again back recall

To this light
A stranger to himself and all;

Both the wonder and the story

Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.


If you were life, my darling,

And I, your love, were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling,

And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling,

And I, your love, were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,

And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers,

Speak, Love!

DEAREST, do not delay me,

Since, thou knowest, I must be gone; Wind and tide, 'tis thought, do stay me; But 'tis wind that must be blown

From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odors far excel.

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