I.

L O ve! in what Poison is thy Dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding Heart?
None know, but they who feel the Smart.

II.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal Eyes (we find)
Dazle the Opticks of our Mind.
III.

Love to our Cittadel resorts,
Through those deceitful Sally-ports,
Our Sentinels betray our Forts.

IV.

What subtile Withcraft Man constrains,
To change his Pleasure into Pains,
And all his Freedom into Chains?

V.

May not a Prison, or a Grave,

" Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; "
Upon the waters is my light canoe;
Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make
A music on the parting wave for you, —
Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue;
Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung,
Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true! "
This is the song that on the lake was sung,
The boatman sang it over when his heart was young.

XXXIV

The boatman's song is hushed; the night is still,
Still as the vault of heaven, — a plashy oar

I
My love forever!
The day I first saw you
At the end of the market-house,
My eye observed you,
My heart approved you,
I fled from my father with you,
Far from my home with you.
II

I never repented it:
You whitened a parlour for me,
Painted rooms for me,
Reddened ovens for me,
Baked fine bread for me,
Basted meat for me,
Slaughtered beasts for me;
I slept in ducks' feathers
Till midday milking-time,
Or more if it pleased me.
III

My friend forever!
My mind remembers
That fine spring day

1

Spawn of Fantasies
Sitting the appraisable
Pig Cupid
His rosy snout
Rooting erotic garbage
" Once upon a time "
Pulls a weed
White star-topped
Among wild oats
Sown in mucous-membrane.

I would
An eye in a Bengal light
Eternity in a skyrocket
Constellations in an ocean
Whose rivers run no fresher
Than a trickle of saliva

There are suspect places
I must live in my lantern
Trimming subliminal flicker
Virginal to the bellows
Of experience
Colored glass

2

YOUNG MEN WILL LOVE THEE MORE FAIR AND MORE FAST

Young men will love thee more fair and more fast!
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?
Old men's love the longest will last,
And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.

The young man's wrath is like light straw on fire;
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire,
And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.

Love he to-morrow, who loved never;
To-morrow, who hath loved, persever.
The spring appears, in which the earth
Receives a new harmonious birth;
When all things mutual love unites;
When birds perform their nuptial rites;
And fruitful by her watery lover,
Each grove its tresses doth recover.
Love's Queen to-morrow, in the shade,
Which by these verdant trees is made,
Their sprouting tops in wreaths shall bind,
And myrtles into arbors wind,
To-morrow, raised on a high throne,
Dione shall her laws make known.

Loue which is heere a care,
That wit and will doth marre,
Vncertaine truce, and a most certaine warre,
A shrill tempestuous winde,
Which doth disturbe the minde,
And, like wilde waues, our dessignes all commoue;
Among those sprights aboue
Which see their Maker's face,
It a contentment is, a quiet peace,
A pleasure voide of griefe, a constant rest,
Eternall ioy which nothing can molest.

Hit 's a mighty fur ways up de Far'well Lane,
My honey, my love!
You may ax Mister Crow, you may ax Mister Crane,
My honey, my love!
Dey'll make you a bow, en dey'll tell you de same,
My honey, my love!
Hit's a mighty fur ways fer ter go in de night,
My honey, my love!
My honey, my love, my heart's delight —
My honey, my love!

Mister Mink, he creeps twel he wake up de snipe,
My honey, my love!
Mister Bull-Frog holler, Come alight my pipe!
My honey, my love!

PROLOGUE

S ELF-LOVE , which never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice, in all critics, reigns so high,
That for small errors they whole plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
You 'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
T' impose upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that leaving you your censures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will see.

Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love!
Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse!
Swich fyn hath his estat real above,
Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse!
Swych fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse!
And thus bigan his lovyng of Criseyde,
As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with youre age,
Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte,
And of youre herte up casteth the visage
To thilke God that after his ymage
Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire