love poems

He that will not love, must be
My Scholar, and learn this of me:
There be in Love as many feares,
As the Summers Corne has eares:
Sighs, and sobs, and sorrowes more
Then the sand, that makes the shore:
Freezing cold, and firie heats,
Fainting swoones, and deadly sweats;
Now an Ague, then a Fever,
Both tormenting Lovers ever.
Wod'st thou know, besides all these,
How hard a woman 'tis to please?
How crosse, how sullen, and how soone
She shifts and changes like the Moone.
How false, how hollow she's in heart;

Here shadow lie
Whil'st life is sadd,
Still hopes to die
To him she hadd

In bliss is hee,
Whom I lov'd best
Thrise happie shee
With him to rest.

So shall I be
With him I loved
And hee with mee
And both us blessed

Love made me Poet
And this I writt,
My harte did doe yt
And not my witt.

1. Here, Lord, retired, I bow in prayer. Refresh my
2. Without this grace, I strive in vain, O God, re-
soul my heart prepare To preach thy word with
vive thy saints again; Convince poor sinners
power divine; If I succeed, the praise be thine.
of their case, Cause them to seek thy pardoning grace.

3. Draw thousands to thy mercy seat;
Their hearts renew their sins remit;
Fill them with joy of faith and love
To serve on earth, to praise above.

4. In tears I sow the precious seed;
Cause it to spring my work succeed.

Here lie I, once a witty fair,
Ill-loving and ill-loved;
Whose heedless beauty was my snare,
Whose wit my folly proved.

Reader, should any curious stay
To ask my luckless name,
Tell them the grave that hides my clay
Conceals me from my shame.

Tell them I mourned for guilt of sin
More than for pleasure spent:
Tell them, whate'er my morn had been,
My noon was penitent.

Here costive many minutes did I strain,
Still squeezing, sweating, swearing, all in vain;
When lo! who should pop by but mother Masters,
At whose bewitching look soon stubborn arse stirs.
No more my wanton wit shall whip thy wife,
Dear, doting Dick, for O! she saved my life.

Her love is true I know,
Much more true
Than angel's love;
For angels love in heaven
Where a thousand harps
Are playing.

She loves in a tenement
Where the only music
She hears
Is the cry of street car brakes
And the toot of automobile horns
And the drip of a kitchen spigot
All day.
Her love is true I know.

Her eyes are like forget-me-nots,
— So loving, kind and true;
Her lips are like a pink sea-shell
— Just as the sun shines through;

Her hair is like the waving grain
— In summer's golden light;
And, best of all, her little soul
— Is, like a lily, white.

Henceforth I will nott sett my love
on other then the Contrye lasse
For in the Courte I see and prove
fancye is brittle as the glasse
The love bestowed on the greate
ys ever full of toile and cares
Subject still to frowne and freate
with sugred bayts in suttle snares
In good olde tymes ytt was the guyse
to shewe things in their proper kinde
Love painted owte in nakede wise
to shewe his playne and single mynde
Butt since into the Courte hee came
infected with a braver stile

He whose active thoughts disdain
To be Captive to one foe,
And would break his single chain
Or else more would undergo;
Let him learn the art of me,
By new bondage to be free.

What tyrannick Mistresse dare
To one beauty love confine,
Who unbounded as the aire
All may court but none decline?
Why should we the Heart deny
As many objects as the Eye?

Wheresoe're I turn or move

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow:
And ye say, " Abdallah's dead! "
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this:
" I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine — it is not I. "

Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,