love poetry

My Loue allace is Loathsum wnto me: restles I liue in absence of my sweete
The harde mishapis I have incurred latelye: hes with dispaire ourquhelm'd my weerie spreit: O the Loyell saul is this the fates decreete: may I noucht haue your presens as befoir
Adew contentment till thow me intreit, so sall be sene ay till thow me restoir
Knew I allace the way I might deploir not to the world but to thy self my teers
Onlie by the may cuirit be my soir, ten thousand heartes may not sustene sic weeres

I am so desolate,
Genius sighs—
Come, Love, and be my mate,
Give me thine eyes.

I am aweary,
Love, give me rest;
Leave me not dreary,
Give me thy breast.

The lark looks to heaven,
The flower to the sun;
But my heart is sore riven
For thy beauty, sweet one.

Give me thy presence,
My life to eufold;
Then care and sorrow hence,
My life thou shalt hold.

SONG.

Now (as I live) I love thee much,
And fain would love thee more,
Did I but know thy temper such,
As could give o're.

But to ingage thy Virgin-heart,
Then leave it in distresse,
Were to betray thy brave desert,
And make it lesse.

Were all the Eastern Treasures mine,
I'de pour them at thy feet:
But to invite a Prince to dine

Believe not him whom Love hath left so wise,
As to have power his own tale to tell;
For Childrens griefs do yield the loudest cryes,
And cold desires may be expressed well.
In well-told Love most often falshood lyes.
But pity him that onely sighs and Dyes.

His Answer.

Yet trust him that a sad tale tells,
With sighs and tears in's eyes:
For Love with torture often dwells,

The pitied fortune most men chiefly hate,
And rather think the envied fortunate:
Yet I, if Misery did look as she,
Should quickly fall in love with Misery.

What is love? a compound strange,
Made of mingled hopes and fears;
Subject to perpetual change,
Quick succeeding smiles and tears.

What is love? a sudden whim,
Like lightning, passing through the mind:
A strange capricious fickle thing,
More inconstant than the wind.

What is love? a gentle flame,
Blazing round the youthful heart;
Prov'd by the mention of a name,
Which sweet emotions can impart.

Prov'd by the glances of the eye,
Which, what the tongue denies, reveals;

Oh ! tell me, thou who all my Soul inspires,
Source of my Joys, and Partner of my Fires,
By what clear Stream, or nigh what flow'ry Mead
Thy tender Flocks with wanton Pleasure feed:
Where does my Dear, my lovely Wand'rer stray;
Tell me, and guide my weary Steps that Way.

In vain I trace the Plains, each winding Grove;
No Swain directs me to my absent Love:
Close in the Covert of some Shade he lyes;
Some envious Shade conceals him from my Eyes:
Bear then my soft Complainings tOhis Ear;

My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood.

Still, still and lovely, as some sculptured form,
She lay draped in her shroud of snowy white;
But cold the cheek that once was purely warm,
And dim the eye that once was proudly bright.

The rich curl-clusters of her golden hair
Hung o'er the pulseless form in careless grace;
And Death's cold shadow rested on the fair
And placid beauty of the faultless face.

The parted lips still wore a ruby tinge,
And round the mouth a smile yet seemed to play;
The right hand rested on the curtain-fringe,

While recent, young, and weak, the unripe seeds
Of those dire cares which have their rise from Love,
Ere yet in rank luxuriance strong and wild
They flourish, crush, and from the incipient ill
Forewarned, retreat; prudent if from the yoke
Ungalled thy neck may be withdrawn. Nor think
The danger distant if no warning pangs
Give friendly notice of its dread approach.
At first, with scanty flow the tinkling rill
Drips from the rock; then oozing through green moss,
Or over pebbles chiming, gently winds