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Like separated souls,

All time and space controls :

Above the highest sphere we meet
Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate

Our after-fate,
And are alive i' the skies,

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined
In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.



Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?

Prythee, why so pale ?
Will, if looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Prythee, why so pale ?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't ?
Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;
lf of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The D-| take her !



Awake, awake, my Lyre !
And tell thy silent master's humble tale

In sounds that may prevail ;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

Though so exalted she

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,

Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try ;

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

To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove ;
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

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. 103. THE MANLY HEART.

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

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
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;

If she seem not such to me,

What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo ;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve ;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

G. Wither.


Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound !
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls !

A midnight bell, a parting groan !

These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
As in that well-remember'd night
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

Since then how often hast thou prest The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin that peopled hell ; A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion ! O if such clime thou canst endure Yet keep thy hue uustain'd and pure, What conquest o'er each erring thought of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! I had not wander'd far and wide With such an angel for my guide ; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me If she had lived, and lived to love me.

Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race, And frantic hurry of the chase ; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend ny prey, Then—from the carcass turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tame, And soothed each wound which pride inflamed : Yes, God and man might now approve me If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me !

SIR W. Scott.

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