romantic poems

I.

My Love, makes me conceal my Love;
My Pain, makes me to her cry out,
Whilst she says, Silence Love shou'd prove;
Tho' that Proof more shou'd cause her Doubt.
Yet must I hold my Tongue, (I find)
That she may better know my Mind.

II.

Then 'tis all one, to hide my Pain,
Or own to her, my Killing-Grief;
Begging her Love, her Scorn I gain;
Not asking it, can't hope Relief:
Yet wou'd I have my Love deny'd,

I.

In Love, Procrastination is,
As 'tis in Charity, a Crime,
And Kindnesses turn Injuries,
For which, we Patience lose, and Time;
The Gift is lost in its Delay,
Which costs us Life, the dearest Pay:

II.

And that Death is the most severe,
For which, in Pain, we longest wait,
As Punishments, ev'n Mercies are,
But by their falling on us, strait;
For Joys grow Griefs by lingering,
By Mens vain Hopes, true Sorrows bring.

III.

Delay grows the worst Torturer,

The blind God has, my blind Devotion still,
In whom I've so much Faith, I've no Free-Will.
So 'tis not this, or t'other Goddess I
Adore alone, or call my Destiny;
But best, my true Faith, and Devotion prove,
By my blind Faith, in the blind God of Love;
The Grace of some bright Angel to procure,
In Love to make my Call, Election, sure;
I ne'r Election of my Goddess make,
Nor for my Fate, one Mortal Angel take:
But love the whole Sex, most implicitly,
My Zeal and Faith but more to justifie,

Friendship , at once, is Love and Honour too,
Which does a Heart, without Design, bestow;
Or Hopes of a Return, by which a Trade
Or Trucking Commerce, Bart'ring Love is made:
So Love's a Bond-slave, and must Duty pay,
Makes Man, ev'n those he shou'd command, obey,
In spight of Reason, whether 'twill, or no;
But Friendship, Voluntary Good will do,
Is Kindness, without Obligation, so.
Love does a Mercenary Slave appear,
Whilst Friendship, is a Noble Volunteer.
Love does but for Reward, a Benefit,

To Thee, Beginner of Beginnings, who,
First made the World, does it continue too;
To Thee, first Cause of Ingenuity,
In teaching Men, with Art, to Feign and Lye,
Shou'd I have first began, my Poetry;
To Thee, I shou'd have written first, to prove
Some Sense, who first didst me to Writing move;
And not the Love of Honour, or of Fame,
Which, as more sought, but more becomes our Shame,
And are more forfeited, as more our Claim;
But first to Thee, all Mankind ought to Write,
Who giv'st, at once, Instruction and Delight,

'T was in a conquered town — we warred in Spain;
I was a gay lieutenant, rash and young,
Loving to lisp the Andalusian tongue
With jet-eyed charmers who to list would deign.

Oft by old Alcazars, with mandolin strung,
I would not warble long my amorous strain,
And, for my blue eyes' sake, one beauty hung
Over her balcon's gloom a silken skein.

Deluded boy, with fatuous pride elate,
I could not deem her love to danger led;
Yet in that Spanish heart a world of hate
For me in each soft kiss more surely spread

Madam,

Accept the softest sweetest Strains,
That ever breath'd a dying Lovers Pains;
That ever yet could unsuccessful prove,
When arm'd with all the Eloquence of Love;
And if you find some tender moving Part,
Soften your Soul, and steal upon your Heart;
(For sure the most obdurate Maid must blame,
The rigid Coyness of the Cruel Dame:)
Then lovely Laura , think, you faintly feel
The Symptoms of a Flame I dare not tell,
Think, then, you hear your suppliant Lover sigh,
But generously, more than see him dye;

Shall then his beauteous Rosamonda mourn,
Nor Henry's Soul the soft Complaint return!
O cease, my Fair! I deeply feel thy smart,
And all thy sorrows double in my Heart:
Far from my Breast, ye Scenes of War! remove,
Far from my Breast be every Scene, but Love;
Soft rising Thoughts as when, in Woodstock Bowers,
Joyful, we lov'd away the laughing Hours.

Now mid-night Rest relieves the Soldier's Care,
Hush'd are the Drums, and every Voice of War;
Faint gleam the Fires along the dewy Field,

How dear the hand that chases pain away,
With the soft touch of Florence Nightingale,
And dear is friendship's hand that should not fail,
But ah, how often does its grasp betray!
There are firm hands that in mad battle slay,
Hands that spread midnight poisons, parched and pale,
Low, venal ones, whose pens like serpents trail,
And holy ones that succor, soothe, allay.

Sweet is the pressure of an honest hand;
Tender and true when dying parents bless,
Awful, when men livid with murder stand,

He was a Wizard's son,
She an Enchanter's daughter;
He dabbled in Spells for fun,
Her father some magic had taught her.

They loved — but alas! to agree
Their parents they could n't persuade.
In Enchanter and Wizard, you see,
Were natural rivals in trade —
And the market for magic was poor —
There was scarce enough business for two
To what started rivalry pure
Into hatred and jealousy grew.

How the lovers were dreadfully good;