love poem

XVII.
Come away, arm'd with loves delights,
Thy sprightfull graces bring with thee:
When loves longing fights,
They must the sticklers be.
Come quickly, come, the promis'd houre is wel-nye spent,
And pleasure, being too much deferr'd, looseth her best content.

VIII.
O deare, that I with thee might live,
From humane trace removed:
Where jealous care might neither grieve,
Yet each dote on their loved.
While fond feare may colour finde, Love's seldome pleased;
But much like a sicke mans rest, it's soone diseased.

Why should our mindes not mingle so,
When love and faith is plighted,
That eyther might the others know,

X.
Wise men patience never want,
Good men pitty cannot hide:
Feeble spirits onely vant
Of revenge, the poorest pride.
Hee alone forgive that can
Beares the true soule of a man.

Some there are, debate that seeke,
Making trouble their content,
Happy if they wrong the meeke,
Vexe them that to peace are bent:
Such undooe the common tye
Of mankinde, societie.

Kindnesse growne is, lately, colde;
Conscience hath forgot her part;

Tir'd with vain hopes, and with complaints as vain,
Of anxious love's alternate joy and pain,
Inconstant fortune's favour and her hate,
And unperforming friendships of the great;
Here both contented and resign'd, I lye;
Here learn to live; nor wish, nor fear to die.

Ask me no more but love,
— See, the west is all roses! —
Darkness comes down from above;
No more — the hour closes;

Ask me no more but love,
I have no other might.
Sun of my dusk, dream of my dawn, I come to you
Sure as the stars to-night!

TO STELLA

Ev'ning, now, from purple wings,
Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes shake the reed;
Shake the reed, and curl the stream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia 's beam.
Near, the chequer'd, lonely grove
Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love.—
Stella ! thither let us stray,
Lightly o'er the dewy way;
Phœbus drives his burning car
Hence, my lovely Stella , far;
In his stead, the Queen of Night
Round us pours a lambent light;

I had you for a servant, once, Dick Brome;
And you performed a servant's faithful parts:
Now, you are got into a nearer room,
Of fellowship, professing my old arts.
And you do do them well, with good applause,
Which you have justly gained from the stage,
By observation of those comic laws
Which I, your master, first did teach the age.
You learned it well; and, for it, served your time,
A prenticeship: which few do nowadays.
Now each court hobby-horse will wince in rhyme;
Both learned, and unlearned, all write plays.

In many ways does the full heart reveal
The presence of the love it would conceal;
But in far more th' estranged heart lets know
The absence of the love, which yet it fain would shew.
[before May 1827]

Lady. If Love be dead —
Poet. And I aver it!
Lady. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried?
Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born:
Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn
If, in my fancy, I presume
To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.
And on that tomb to read the line: —
" Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine,
But caught a chill, as I divine,
And died at length of a Decline."

Made worthy by excess of Love
A wretch thro' power of Happiness,
And poor from wealth, I dare not use.

This separation is, alas!
Too great a punishment to bear:
O take my Life, or let me pass
That Life, that happy Life, with her!

The dazzling charm of outward Form,
The power of Gold, the pride of Birth,
Have taken Woman's heart by storm,
Supplied the place of inward worth.

Is not true Love of higher price,
Than outward Form, tho' fair to see,
Wealth's glitt'ring fairy-dome of Ice,