love poetry

The bibliophile who loves his margins wide —
Who grudges e'en to type an inch or two —
Most strangely has not ever stepped aside
To read with glee a virgin blank-book through.

SPOKEN AT SCARBOROUGH

Where is this author? — bid the wretch appear,
Let him come in, and wait for judgment — here.
This awful jury, all impatient, wait; —
Let him come in, I say, and meet his fate!
Strange, very strange, if such a piece succeeds!
(Punish the culprit for his vile misdeeds)
Know ye to-night, " that his presumptuous works,
Have turn'd good Christians into — Heathen Turks?
And if the genius an't corrected soon,
In his next trip, he'll mount us to the moon.

Love is begot 'twixt idlenesse and lust;
The mettle that's not us'd, can't chuse but rust.
These Codpiece loves but phancies are at best,
They nere show well, if not in colours drest.

Hence fonder Amorists Belials Orizons ply,
Who laughs at your enameld perjury.
O how Volatile is your toy call'd love!
Which onely constant doth in changing prove.
As it begins with fire, it ends with ice:
Change is the portion of each child of vice.
All lusts felicities move on feet that reel:
Who's ty'd to passion's ty'd unto a wheel.
The Sea's more faithful, which now curles in smiles,
And straight incens'd in towring billows boyls.
Lust's 'twixt a pot and glass then both more weak,

Gold could buy offices, could it have bought wit,
You for your place, it had for you been fit:
But oh more happy times sequestred it!
No time can you sequester of your wit.
You'r a rare Courtier, if the proverb's true:
Nor want of pride, nor ignorance is in you.
And no bad statesman, you may Cope with th' fame
Of Burleigh, Cecil , and wise Walsingame .
No Statesman must divulge what he doth know,
You'r rarely wise who nere your wisdom show.
Your knowledge by your sentences I know,
Pray me some wisdom by your silence show.

BE AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE ?

" All praise is foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not near the heart; "
Yet may a maid for love of praise contend,
Though Pleasure's votary, not less Virtue's friend.
May not she strive around her sacred shrine
The wreath of pleasure gaily to entwine?
To strew the path with many a fragrant flower,
And sweetly decorate the playful hour?
To tempt e'en Time to loiter on his way,
And feel a wish to lengthen out the day?

Who could a Fancy love? who Fancy have.
None e're love wit, whom nature no wit gave.
Some say my Fancy's rich, you'l love it sure;
My Fancy's you, can you your self endure?
Most fancy gold, and I a golden skin:
Who's gold without, is she not rich within?
I from thy skin did make the break of day;
The Moon made pale you took her light away.
To yellow skin the Indies I'd confine;
Give every part the riches of a Mine,
Scorn but my fancy, thou again art poor;
Horses with Yellows shall be valued more.

Ah , what is't to me that the grasshopper sings!
Or what, that the meadows are fair!
That (like little flow'rets, if mounted on wings,)
The butterflies flaunt it in air!
Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign;
Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite,
We twisted a blooming alcove;
And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declar'd it the Mantle of Love.

To answer Humours who four Elements chose,
Had need the fift, their quarrels to compose.
Sure it is Love doth all together knit;
Love made the world, and Love preserveth it.
Things diff'rent are, but nothing contrary is,
But as intended, or it is remisse.
Ah! why should Med'ciners in their art agree,
Since Natures self's but Contrariety?

I HEARD Love's voice thrill all the waiting Night,
And I arose and followed where he led:
Then Morning mocked me with revealing light —
The great bright world was empty — Love was dead.