Thou art my life, my love, my heart, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. R. Herrick. XLI. LOVE not me for comely grace, For those may fail, or turn to ill, Keep therefore a true woman's eye, Anon. XLII. NOT, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find 10 For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store, Sir C. Sedley. 15 IF to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, 5 Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; 10 For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 15 So then we do anticipate And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. Colonel Lovelace. XLV. XLVI. Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: 15 Sir J. Suckling. The D-1 take her! A SUPPLICATION. AWAKE, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: CXXX. Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try; Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. 5 10 15 Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. A. Cowley. XLVII. THE MANLY HEART. SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care CXXXI. |