love poems

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,

Ad amicam

I ask but right: let her that caught me late
Either love, or cause that I may never hate.
I ask too much: would she but let me love her;
Love knows with such like prayers I daily move her.
Accept him that will serve thee all his youth,
Accept him that will love with spotless truth.
If lofty titles cannot make me thine,
That am descended but of knightly line
(Soon may you plough the little land I have;
I gladly grant my parents given to save),
Apollo, Bacchus and the Muses may,

I know a spot where Love delights to dream,
Because he finds his fancies happen true.
Within its fence no myrtle ever grew
That failed in wealth of flower; no sunny beam
Has used its vantage vainly. You might deem
Yourself a happy plant and blossom too,
Or be a bird and sing as thrushes do,
So sweet in that fair place doth nature seem.
A matted vine invests the rocks above,
And tries to kiss a runlet leaping through
With endless laughter. Hither at noon comes Love,
And woos the god who is not hard to woo,

‘ WE LOVE THE SHRILL TRUMPET ’

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's rattle,
They call us to sport, and they call us to battle;
And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats of a stranger,
While our comrades in pastime are comrades in danger.

If there 's mirth in our house, 't is our neighbor that shares it—
If peril approach, 't is our neighbor that dares it;
And when we lead off to the pipe and the tabor,
The fair hand we press is the hand of a neighbor.

I know, within my mouth, for bashful fear
And dread of your disdain, my words will die;
I know I shall be stricken dumb, my dear,
With doubt of your unpitiful reply.
I know, whenas I shall before you lie
Prostrate and humble, craving help of you,
Misty aspects will cloud your sun-bright eye,
And scornful looks o'ershade your beauty's hue.
I know, when I shall plead my love so true,
So stainless, constant, loyal, and upright,
My truthful pleadings will not cause you rue
The ne'er-heard state of my distressid plight.

My recollectest thoughts are those
—Which I remember yet;
And bearing on, as you'd suppose,
—The things I don't forget.

But my resemblest thoughts are less
—Alike than they should be;
A state of things, as you'll confess,
—You very seldom see.

And yet the mostest thought I love
—Is what no one believes—
That I'm the sole survivor of
—The famous Forty Thieves!

Alas! if I think of her, my throat becomes
dry, my hand falls back, my breasts harden and
hurt, and I shiver and I cry as I walk. If I
see her, my heart stops and my hands tremble,
my feet freeze, a redness of flame rises to my
cheeks, my temples beat in agony. If I touch
her, I grow mad, my arms stiffen and my knees
give under me. I fall before her, and I go to
my bed like a woman who is going to die. I feel
I am wounded by every word she speaks. Her love
is a torture, and those who pass by hear my

The storm lasted all night. Selenis, with her lovely
hair, came to spin with me. She stayed for fear of
the mud, and we filled my little bed, clasped close
to each other. When two girls go to bed together, sleep
stays at the door. " Bilitis, tell me, tell me, whom
do you love?" To caress me softly she slipped her leg
over mine. And over my mouth she said: " Bilitis, I
know whom you love. Shut your eyes. I am Lycas!"
I answered, touching her: " Can I not see that you
are a girl? Your pleasantry is out of place." But

To CASTARA.

What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.

I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;
 Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe,
 The parents of their Loves decay;
And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?
Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares
 To th' holy silence of my Vrne?
 And chide the Marble with her teares,
'Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.
For had Fate spar'd but Araphill (she'le say)
 He had the great example stood,
 And forc't unconstant man obey

The harmony of Love.

Amphion , O thou holy shade!
 Bring Orpheus up with thee:
That wonder may you both invade,
 Hearing Loves harmony.
You who are soule, not rudely made
 Vp, with Materiall eares,
Are fit to reach the musique of these spheares.
Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move
 By my first moving eyes,
How great the Symphony of Love,
 But 'tis the destinies
Will not so farre my prayer approve,
 To bring you hither, here
Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.
Tis no dull Sublunary flame