XCVIII OT, Celia, that I juster am NOT, Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. For the whole sex can but afford Why then should I seek further store, When change itself can give no more, Sir C. Sedley XCIX TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON HEN Love with unconfinéd wings WHEN Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When healths and draughts go free - Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confinéd, I Stone walls do not a prison make, That for an hermitage : Angels alone, that soar above, Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, 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, Can speak like spirits unconfined Colonel Lovelace CI ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER HY so pale and wan, fond lover? WHY 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? Will, when speaking well can't win her, 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 F. Suckling CII A SUPPLICATION 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, 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. CIII A. Cowley THE MANLY HEART HALL I, wasting in despair, SHALL in Or my cheeks make pale with care Be she fairer than the day 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? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget mine own? |