THE VICTORY OF LOVE

Beloved I come to tell you it is Spring!
The old brown earth puts forth pale buds again;
Pierced by the silver arrows of the rain
Her wounded breasts bleed blossoms, violets cling
Across your grave ... and how the wild birds sing!
Safe sheathed in sunshine is fate's sword of pain,
But Beauty beckons to my soul in vain,
Since you are dead what comfort can she bring?
Oh, Lover, I am striving to forget,
But your gay laughter haunts me, and I still
Hunger to hear your voice, that used to thrill
My heart with so much happiness, I fret

A DELE is gayly anecdotal of
The whims and eccentricities of friends.
" Don't think from what I've said, " her story ends.
" That Sue's not sweet! She is! A perfect love! "
Making a dove of Sue, she soils the dove,
Assumes attack and speciously defends,
Plants little lisping doubts and still pretends
She loves that girl all lovely girls above.

Behind Adele's white teeth her pretty tongue
Lies coiled to strike without a warning hiss:
She smiles upon the victim newest stung
And marks the next for poison with a kiss;

Beauty, Love's Friend, who help'st him to a Throne,
By Wisdom Deify'd, to whom alone
Thy Excellence is known,
And ne're neglected but by those have none;
Thou noble Coyn, by no false sleight allay'd,
By whom we Lovers Militant are paid,
True to the Touch, and ever best
When thou art brought unto the Test,
And who do'st still of higher value prove.
As deeper thou art search'd by Love.
He who allows thee only in the Light
Is there mistaken quite,
For there we only see the outer skin,
When the Perfection lies within;

A MAN of adamant you surely are
To love a dame who loves stale vinegar,
A dame whose palate whelks and tripe enchant,
Who thinks bananas too extravagant,
Whose maid brings in (rare trove!) a common pot
Of spoiled sardines to eat before they rot;
Grown lowish now and not afraid to shock
She begs for flannelette to make a frock;
My dame will ask for attar, precious stuff,
" Worth " for her frocks is hardly good enough:
Fine graded pearls and emeralds I must find.
And gold is copper to her generous mind.

S PENDOPHORUS must on his lord attend
And soon to Libya his way will wend.
Give him, dear Love, a wand and those soft darts
Wherewith thou woundest eager lovers' hearts.
Cuirass and shield and helm I leave to thee,
He will be safe if naked he shall be,
E'en as Parthenopaeus felt no blow
From foemen's dart while they could see his brow.
But whomsoe'er he pierces straight will die
Of love — how happy in death's agony!
O beauty bright, from Africa come home
And grow to manhood here with us in Rome.

Foul Asian coast, his life hast thou betrayed,
On thee by guilty waves his corpse was tossed.
Close in her breast his loving spouse conveyed
The sacred urn, too soon the seas were crossed,
Too soon those ashes in the earth she laid,
And seemed twice widowed of a love twice lost.

Do you think that this man, whom your generous board
Has got you for friend, can true friendship afford?
It's your oysters and mullet he loves, sir, not you:
If my dinners were good, he would be my friend too.

ACT. V. S CEN. VIII.

Misander, Leucasia, Chryse, Euthalpe, Priest, Eudemus, Timophilus, Cleodemus, Patacion,
Epigenes, Scedasus, Terpander.

Mis. Must there be something still to cross our joys?
What is the matter here?
Phi. A Fury, a Fury!
Yonder he slinks.
Cal. And 't please your Majesty
I am no Fury, I'm a Captain, one
They call Callimachus by daylight Sir;
The Angel Sir, the Angel!
Pru. I'm the Angell.

ACT. V. S CEN VII.

Nicias slinks in, and placeth himself as behind a
Pillar to take the sight; Callimachus after him
dress'd as a Fury .

Call. Well! a Male Fiend is fit for a She Fury;
Like must to like; so I unto this Widdow.
If any of my Coat should come and take
Acquaintance of me for a recall Fiend,
And find me tripping, I've no other way
But just to swear him down I am a true one
That have — — (let's see) — — lain Leiger in the Indies,

ACT . V. S CEN . VI.

Prusias drest like an Angell with a Caduceus in one
hand, and a Taper in the other .

Prus. Thou art an Angell, Prusids , therfore fit
To be receiv'd into her heav'nly Bosome.
She shapes thee in an Habit, that she'l wed thee.
Truly, I think all Courtiers would be Angels,
If that they were not giv'n so much to th' flesh,
That keeps 'em all from Heav'n. But why should I
Be set to guard a Coffin? If there doe
Any ill Spirits use to haunt this Temple,