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 And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. COLONEL LOVELACE. 101. 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, Saying nothing do't? Prythee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The D-1 take her! SIR J. SUCKLING. 102. A SUPPLICATION. Awake, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale 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, 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. 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 Be she fairer than the day If she be not so to me, 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? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 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, What care I for whom she be ? G. WITHER. 104. MELANCHOLY. Hence, all you vain delights, O sweetest Melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; J. FLETCHER. 105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR. Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright Since then how often hast thou prest A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me Not then this world's wild joys had been And soothed each wound which pride inflamed :— If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me! SIR W. SCOTT. |