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I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days, behold! 'tis dead:
They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.
There is no danger, if the pain
(Like drink which feverish men desire)
Ask me not what my love shall do or be
For 'tis the body of my love:
What a few words from thy rich stock did take
As a strong poison with one drop does make
I CHOSE the flourishing'st tree in all the park,
Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;
I thought her name would thee have happy made,
"Notes of my love, thrive here," said I, "and
And with ye let my love do so."
Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive !
COME, let's go on, where love and youth does
To show such stores, and nothing grant,
Unless it heal, as well as strike:
Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
Such charms thy beauty wears, as might
That a fly's death 's a wound to thee;
Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Which God did for our faults create!
The. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee,
Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?
Me thou'ast robb'd; but what art thou
Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure!
Ile. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in
But noblest charity in thee. I'll the well-gotten pleasure Safe in my memory treasure:
What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and
VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER.
She said, she said herself it would be so;
She. Though public punishment we escape, the
When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the
He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I
That wounded balm is all my
Never so justly, sure, before,
Errour the name of blindness bore;
There's no man that has eyes would bet for me.
If Truth itself (as other angels do
When they descend to human view) In a material form would deign to shine, "Twould imitate or borrow thine:
So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear,
Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy.
Than what I ow'd to thee before: Who would not venture for that debt to play, Which he were bound howe'er to pay? If Nature gave me power to write in verse, She gave it me thy praises to rehearse :
Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Has such a sovereign right to it, That no man's Muse for public vent is free, Till she has paid her customs first to thee.
BATHING IN THE RIVER. THE fish around her crowded, as they do To the false light that treacherous fishers shew, And all with as much ease might taken be,
As she at first took me ; For ne'er did light so clear Among the waves appear, Though every night the Sun himself set there,
Why to mute fish should thou thyself discover,
Maids bury: and, for aught we know,
I laugh'd the wanton play to view;
And still old lovers yield the place to new.
Then tell her what your pride doth cost, And how your use and beauty's lost, When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost. Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee, Haste without stop to a devouring sea; Where they will mix'd and undistinguish'd lie With all the meanest things that die; As in the ocean thou
No privilege dost know
Above th' impurest streams that thither flow.
Marriage (say to her) will bring
Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
THE FORCE of Love.
PRESERVED FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.
THROW an apple up an hill,
Down the mountain flows the streami,
But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. Metals grow within the mine,
Th' ambition of thy love,
Luscious grapes upon the vine;
Does the cedar love the mountain!
And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part. Seek the birds in spring to pair?
If e'er I clear my heart of this desire,
If e'er it home to its breast retire,
A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.
The pox, the plague, and every small disease
Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
As the wencher loves a lass,
We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shurt,
When the Moon out-shines the Sung
almost without any thing else, makes an excel
Ir a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it would be thought, that one mad-lent poet; for though the grammarians and critics man had translated another; as may appear, have laboured to reduce his verses into regular when he that understands not the original, reads feet and measures (as they have also those of the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they than which nothing seems more raving. And are little better than prose to our ears. And I sure, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and would gladly know what applause our best pieces the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monstrare & of English poesy could expect from a Frenchsentio tantum) would but make it ten times man or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word more distracted than it is in prose. We must for word, into French or Italian prose. And consider in Pindar the great difference of time when we have considered all this, we must needs betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in confess, that, after all these losses sustained by pictures, at least, the colours of poetry; the no Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or inless difference betwixt the religions and customs vention (not deserting still his subject) is not of our countries; and a thousand particularities like to make him a richer man than he was in his of places, persons, and manners, which do but own country. This is in some measure to be confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a dis- applied to all translations; and the not observing And lastly (which were enough alone of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw for my purpose) we must consider, that our are so much inferior to their originals. The fars are strangers to the music of his numbers, like happens too in pictures, from the same root which, sometimes (especially in songs and odes) of exact imitation; which, being a vile and un