love poetry

You are faithless as a Carthaginian,
To love at once Kate, Nell, Doll, Martha, Jenny, Ann.

High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;
That treasure, that treasure alone
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire
My soul does inspire.
That treasure, that treasure alone
I beg for my own.

Your love let me crave,
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing,
That empire is all I would have.

Love's my petition,
And all my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful, so faithful a lover,
So real a flame,

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of felony,
Of thee I sing —
Land where my fathers fried
Young witches and applied
Whips to the Quaker's hide
And made him spring.

My knavish country, thee,
Land where the thief is free,
Thy laws I love;
I love thy thieving bills
That tap the people's tills;
I love thy mob whose will's
All laws above.

Let Federal employees
And rings rob all they please,
The whole year long.
Let office-holders make
Their piles and judges rake

C HO W NDASH-CHÜN TO HER HUSBAND S SU-MA H SIANG-JU

You have taken our love and turned it into coins of silver.
You sell the love poems you wrote for me,
And with the price of them you buy many cups of wine,
I beg that you remain dumb,
That you write no more poems.
For the wine does us both an injury,
And the words of your heart
Have become the common speech of the Emperor's concubines.

As balmly as the breath of her you love
When deep between her breasts it comes to you.

Oh! May sits crowned with hawthorn-flower,
And is Love's month, they say;
And Love's the fruit that is ripened best
By ladies' eyes in May.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e:
Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.
Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair

Deep in jumbled peaks, road to Yün-chü:
with others I tramp the blossoms, alone sorrowing for spring.
Beautiful spots have no fixed owner —
mountains belong mostly to people who love mountains.

Oh a lovely husband he was known, He loved his wife and
her alone; She reaped the harvest he had sown; She ate the meat; he
picked the bone. With mixed admirers ev'ry size, She smiled on each with
out disguise; This lovely husband closed his eyes Lest he might take her

CHORUS.

by surprise. Trot! Run! Wasn't he a handy hubby?
What Fun She could plot and plan! Not One
Other such a dandy hubby As this lovely man!

II

He answered at her least command:

Love is anterior to life,
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of breath.