love poems

The soldier worn with wars, delights in peace,
The pilgrim in his ease, when toils are past;
The ship to gain the port, when storms do cease;
And I rejoice discharged from Love at last,
Whom while I served, peace, rest, and land I lost,
With wars, with toils, with storms, worn, tired and tost.

Sweet liberty now gives me leave to sing,
What world it was, where Love the rule did bear;
How foolish chance by lots ruled ev'ry thing,
How error was main sail, each wave a tear,
The master Love himself, deep sighs were wind,

If Love had lost his shafts, and Jove down threw
His thunder-bolts, or spent his forked fire,
They only might recovered be anew
From out my heart, cross-wounded with desire.
Or if debate by Mars were lost a space,
It might be found within the self-same place.

If Neptune's waves were all dried up and gone,
My weeping eyes so many tears distill,
That greater seas might grow by them alone:
Or if no flame were yet remaining still
In Vulcan's forge, he might from out my breast
Make choice of such as should befit him best.

How can my love in equity be blamed,
Still to importune, though it ne'er obtain,
Since though her face and voice will me refrain,
Yet by her voice and face I am inflamed?
For when, alas! her face with frowns is framed,
To kill my love, but to revive my pain;
And when her voice commands, but all in vain,
That love both leave to be, and to be named:
Her siren voice doth such enchantment move,
And though she frown, ev'n frowns so lovely make her,
That I of force am forced still to love.

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated,
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared mine anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet doth she still procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

Let not, sweet saint! let not these lines offend you;
Nor yet the message that these lines impart:
The message my unfeigned love doth send you,
Love, which yourself hath planted in my heart.
For being charmed by the bewitching art
Of those inveigling graces which attend you,
Love's holy fire makes me breathe out in part
The never-dying flames my breast doth lend you.
Then if my lines offend, let Love be blamed;
And if my love displease, accuse mine eyes:
If mine eyes sin, their sin's cause only lies

The Lord, the Judge, his churches warns;
Let hypocrites attend and fear,
Who place their hope in rites and forms,
But make not faith nor love their care.

Vile wretches dare rehearse his name,
With lips of falsehood and deceit;
A friend or brother they defame,
And sooth and flatter those they hate.

They watch to do their neighbors wrong,
Yet dare to seek their Maker's face;
They take his cov'nant on their tongue,
But break his laws, abuse his grace.

To heav'n they lift their hands unclean;

A stripling in my youthful pride
I heeded not the darts of Love,
The power of Venus I denied,
Against her mandates strove.

But now my locks are all but gray,
I feel the sting of mad desire,
I bend my neck beneath Love's sway
And burn with sudden fire.

Take then thy thrall, O Paphian queen,
And laugh elate with smiling eyes;
Pallas again has vanquished been,
The apple is thy prize.

For whom shall I array my hair,
For whom my hands adorn,
For whom my sea-dyed tunic wear,
Now I am left forlorn?

Mine eyes of Rhodopi berest
Find naught to make them gay,
No joy in golden dawn is left
Now that my love's away.

This is love's vintage hour; within my arms
I hold imprisoned all thy rosy charms,
The crown of my desire, nor can see
In spring or summer aught so fair as thee.
Thy autumn beauties every treasure hold,
Oh, may they bloom for aye, nor e'er grow old.
And yet, what care I? When the grapes lie piled,
Men do not heed the curling tendrils wild.
And so my love will constant last, I trow,
E'en when the tendril wrinkles line thy brow.

Love and Desire play the set,
My heart's the flying ball,
To Heliodore across the net
They send it, rise and fall.

Be heedful, sweetest; watch thy art
Nor mock me in my need;
To miss the stroke and lose my heart,
That were a fault indeed.