love poetry

You wish, O master of my destiny,
That I control myself!
'Twere better you ruled me.
For if I rule myself, I smile at you, and hate.
If you rule me, I love you though I curse, O mate!

Thou gracious dweller of the woodland green,
Companion ever of the April flowers,
And living breath of mother Venus's heart,
O gentle zephyr! —

If thou dost know the sorrows of my love, —
Thou that dost bear afar my sad lament, —
Hear me and frankly say to her I love
That here I perish!

Filis, who once my bitter yearnings knew,
Filis, who once my bitter yearnings wept,
Once did she love me, but, alas, I fear,
I fear her anger!

So do the gods with their paternal breasts,

Gentle Swallow, thou we know
Every year dost come and go,
In the Spring thy nest thou mak'st;
In the Winter it forsak'st,
And divert'st thy self awhile
Near the Memphian Towers, or Nile ;
But Love in my suff'ring breast
Builds, and never quits his nest;
First one Love's hatcht; when that flies,
In the shell another lies;
Then a third is half expos'd;
Then a whole brood is disclos'd,
Which for meat still peeping cry,
Whilst the others that can fly
Do their callow brethren feed,

If thou dost the number know
Of the Leaves on every Bough,
If thou canst the reck'ning keep
Of the Sands within the Deep;
Thee of all men will I take,
And my Loves Accomptant make.
Of Athenians first a score
Set me down; then fifteen more:
Adde a Regiment to these
Of Corinthian Mistresses;
For the most renown'd for fair
In Achaea , sojourn there;
Next our Lesbian beauties tell;
Those that in Ionia dwell;
Those of Rhodes and Caria count;
To two thousand they amount.
Wonder'st thou I love so many?

I'am not moved to love Thee, O my Lord,
By any longing for Thy Promised Land;
Nor by the fear of hell am I unmanned
To cease from my transgressing deed or word.
'Tis Thou Thyself dost move me, — Thy blood poured
Upon the cross from nailed foot and hand;
And all the wounds that did Thy body brand;
And all Thy shame and bitter death's award.

Yea, to Thy heart am I so deeply stirred
That I would love Thee were no heaven on high, —
That I would fear, were hell a tale absurd!
Such my desire, all questioning grows vain;

When Alpheüs leaves Pisa behind him and travels by the sea, he brings Arethusa the water that makes the wild olives grow; and with a bride gift coming, of pretty leaves and pretty flowers and sacred dust, he goeth deep into the waves and runneth his course beneath the sea, and so runneth that the two waters mingle not and the sea never knows of the rivers passing through. So is it that the spell of that impish setter of nets, that sly and crafty teacher of troubles, Love, hath e'en taught a river how to dive.

The Muses know no fear of the cruel Love; rather do their hearts befriend him greatly and their footsteps follow him close. And let one that hath not love in his soul sing a song, and they forthwith slink away and will not teach him; but if sweet music be made by him that hath, then fly they all unto him hot-foot. And if you ask me how I know that this is very truth, I tell you I may sing praise of any other, be he God or man, and my tongue will wag falteringly and refuse me her best; b u t if my music be of love and Lycidas, then my voice floweth from my lips rejoicing.

AESCHINAS

A very good day to master Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

To Aeschinas the same.

AESCHINAS

Well met!

THYONICHUS

Well met it is; but what ails ye?

AESCHINAS

Luck's way's not my way, Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!

And let thy breast with kindness glow,
And gentle thoughts within thee move,
While yet a heart, through weal and woe,
Beats to thine own in faithful love.

And who to thee his heart doth bare,
Take heed thou fondly cherish him;

Thyrsis: — Nymphs, who dwell among the waters of the Rhine, Pan, gay keeper of flocks, twi-horned Satyrs, hear me! Grant that Phyllis may love me more than she loves Amynta, or swiftly heal me with death.
Alcon: — O father, O Faunus, often we sang your love; I hung a pine-wreath upon your horns, and when Lydia shall bind your brows with crimson garlands, let her not scorn me for ever.
Thyrsis: — Hills, unshorn hills, soft meadows, Rhine flowing gently by, tell me, did Phyllis teach you to love her when she sang, or did she hurt you with her beauty?