love poem

XXXV RICHARD I

Redoubted King, of courage leonine,
I mark thee, Richard! urgent to equip
Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip;
I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine;
In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline
Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip,
And see love-emblems streaming from thy ship,
As thence she holds her way to Palestine.
My Song, a fearless homager, would attend
Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press
Of war, but duty summons her away

When maidens are young, and in their spring,
Of pleasure, of pleasure, let 'mdash take their full swing,
——Full swing, full swing,
And love, and dance, and play, and sing.
For Silvia, believe it, when youth is done,
There 's nought but hum-drum, hum-drum, hum-drum,
There 's nought but hum-drum, hum-drum, hum-drum.

Then Silvia be wise, be wise, be wise,
The painting and dressing for a while are supplies,
——And may surprise—
But when the fire 's going out in your eyes,
It twinkles, it twinkles, it twinkles, and dies,

A curse upon that faithless maid,
Who first her sex's liberty betrayed;
Born free as man to love and range,
Till nobler nature did to custom change.
Custom, that dull excuse for fools.
Who think all virtue to consist in rules.

From love our fetters never sprung,
That smiling god, all wanton, gay and young.
Shows by his wings he cannot be
Confined to a restless slavery;
But here and there at random roves,
Not fixed to glitt'ring courts or shady groves.

Then she that constancy professed,

All joy to mortals, joy and mirth
Eternal Io's sing;
The gods of love descend to earth,
Their darts have lost the sting.
The youth shall now complain no more
On Sylvia's needless scorn,
But she shall love, if he adore,
And melt when he shall burn.

The nymph no longer shall be shy,
But leave the jilting road;
And Daphne now no more shall fly
The wounded panting God;
But all shall be serene and fair,
No sad complaints of love
Shall fill the gentle whispering air,
No echoing sighs the grove.

The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men, Morris and Hamish.

HAMISH . Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.
MORRIS . I'm wondering about Love.
HAMISH . Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?
MORRIS . I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.
HAMISH . They're a simple folk:
I'm one.
MORRIS . It's you I'm mainly thinking of.
HAMISH . Why, that's an honour, surely.
MORRIS . Now if I loved

What shall we do for Love these days?
How shall we make an altar-blaze
To smite the horny eyes of men
With the renown of our Heaven,
And to the unbelievers prove
Our service to our dear god, Love?
What torches shall we lift above
The crowd that pushes through the mire,
To amaze the dark heads with strange fire?
I should think I were much to blame,
If never I held some fragrant flame
Above the noises of the world,
And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares,
Worshipped before the sacred fears

We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As thou, Love, were the deep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:

But burn'd not through us thy imagining
Like fierce mood in a song caught,
We were as clamour'd words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.

For what more like the brainless speech of a fool, —
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?

Ad amicam, a cuius amore discedere non potest

Long have I borne much, mad thy faults me make:
Dishonest love, my wearied breast forsake!
Now have I freed myself, and fled the chain,
And what I have borne, shame to bear again.
We vanquish, and tread tamed Love under feet,
Victorious wreaths at length my temples greet.
Suffer, and harden: good grows by this grief,
Oft bitter juice brings to the sick relief.
I have sustained so oft thrust from the door,
To lay my body on the hard moist floor.

Ad Macrum, quod de amoribus scribat

To tragic verse while thou Achilles train'st,
And new-sworn soldiers' maiden arms retain'st,
We, Macer, sit in Venus' slothful shade,
And tender love hath great things hateful made.
Often at length, my wench depart I bid,
She in my lap sits still as erst she did.
I said, " It irks me"; half to weeping framed,
" Aye me," she cries, " to love why art ashamed?"
Then wreathes about my neck her winding arms,
And thousand kisses gives, that work my harms.

Quod amet mulieres, cuiuscunque formae sint

I mean not to defend the scapes of any,
Or justify my vices being many.
For I confess, if that might merit favour,
Here I display my lewd and loose behaviour.
I loathe, yet after that I loathe I run;
O how the burden irks, that we should shun.
I cannot rule myself, but where love please
Am driven like a ship upon rough seas.
No one face likes me best, all faces move,
A hundred reasons make me ever love.
If any eye me with a modest look,