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I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead:
My very written flames so violent be,

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.
How should I live myself, whose heart is found
Deeply graven every where
With the large history of many a wound,
Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put.

There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring;
Compar'd with heats I now sustain,
A fever is so cool a thing,

(Like drink which feverish men desire)
That I should hope 'twould almost quench my



Ask me not what my love shall do or be
(Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show,
What after death the soul will do;
'Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know.
The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move,
But all that while a lifeless carcase prove;

For 'tis the body of my love:
Not that my love will fly away,
But still continue; as, they say,
Sad troubled ghosts about their graves

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poison with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:


I CHOSE the flourishing'st tree in all the park,
With freshest boughs and fairest head;

Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this


do stray.

And pardon me, thou gentle tree;

I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And blessed omens hop'd from thee:

"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 !
This blasted tree predestines it;
Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there hast writ,
Deform'dly hanging, the sad picture be
To that unlucky history.

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COME, let's go on, where love and youth does
I've seen too much, if this be all." [call;
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty!

To show such stores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.
For Love to die an infant is lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.
We 'ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do:
The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,
But th' amour at last improv'd;
The Statue itself at last a woman grew,
And so at last, my dear, should you do too.
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther bliss,
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
t grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as strike:
I would not, salamander-like,
In scorching heats always to live desire,
But, like a martyr, pass to Heaven through fire.

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Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
So much as of original sin,

Such charms thy beauty wears, as might
Desires in dying confess'd saints excite:
Thou, with strange adultery,
Dost in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do lust for thee,
And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Ne'er before did woman live,
Who to such multitudes did give
The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.
Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,

That a fly's death 's a wound to thee;
Though savage and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woes;
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Whose rage was of so large extent;
The ills thou dost are whole thine own;
Thou'rt principal and instrument:
In all the deaths that come from you,
You do the treble office do

Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,

Which God did for our faults create!
Thou pleasant, universal ill,
Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dot

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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
Thyself the richer now?

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

sweeter last.

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AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay
'Gainst what an oracle shall say;
Fool that I was, to venture to deny
A tongue so us'd to victory!
A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
That never yet it spoke but gain'd an heart:
Though what you said had not been true,
If spoke by any else but you;
Your speech will govern Destiny,
And Fate will change rather than you should lye.
'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide,
Reason, methinks, was on my side;
But that's a guide, alas! we must resign,
When th' authority's divine.

She said, she said herself it would be so;
And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no:

She. Though public punishment we escape, the
Will rack and torture us within: [sin
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does

When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the
skin at last.

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;
For whatso'er the question be,

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,
So well-proportion'd would the parts appear!
Happy the eye which Truth could see
Cloath'd in a shape like thee;
But happier far the eye

Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy.
Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more

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,
And not to me thy no less silent lover?
Ás some froni men their buried gold commit
To ghosts, that have no use of it;
Half their rich treasures so

Maids bury: and, for aught we know,
(Poor ignorants!) they're mermaids all below.
The amorous waves would fain about her stay,
But still new amorous waves drive them away,
And with swift current to those joys they haste,
That do as swiftly waste:

I laugh'd the wanton play to view;
But 'tis, alas! at land so too,

And still old lovers yield the place to new.
Kiss her, and as you part, you amorous waves,
(My happier rivals, and my fellow-slaves)
Point to your flowery banks, and to her shew
The good your bounties do;

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.
Tell her, kind Flood! when this has made her sad,
Tell her there's yet one remedy to be had: [find
Show her how thou, though long since past, dost
Thyself yet still behind:

Marriage (say to her) will bring
About the self-same thing.

Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
Secure of being again o'erthrown?
Since such an enemy needs not fear
Lest any else should quarter there,
Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down,
the town.

THE FORCE of Love.


THROW an apple up an hill,
Down the apple tumbles still;
Roll it down, it never stops
Till within the vale it drops:
So are all things prone to Love,
All below, and all above.

Down the mountain flows the streami,
Up ascends the lambent flame;
Smoke and vapour mount the skies;
All preserve their unities;
Nought below, and nought above,
Seems averse, but prone to Love:
Stop the meteor in its flight,
Or the orient rays of light;
Bid Dan Phoebus not to shine,
Bid the planets not incline;
"Tis as vain, below, above,
To impede the course of Love.
Eagles to the skies aspire,
Salamanders live in fire,
Diamonds in their quarries lie,
Rivers do the sea supply:
Thus appears, below, above,
A propensity to Love.

But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. Metals grow within the mine,

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Th' ambition of thy love,

Luscious grapes upon the vine;
Still the needle marks the pole;
Parts are equal to the whole:
'Tis a truth as clear, that Love
Quickens all, below, above.
Man is born to live and die,
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly;
Fishes in the waters swim,
Doves are mild, and lions grim:
Nature thus, below, above,
Pushes all things on to Love.

Does the cedar love the mountain!
Or the thirsty deer the fountain?
Does the shepherd love his crook ?
Or the willow court the brook?
Thus by nature all things move,
Like a running stream, to Love.
Is the valiant hero bold?
Does the miser doat on gold?

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,
It ne'er shall wander more about,
Though thousand beauties call it out:

A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.

The pox, the plague, and every small disease
May come as oft as ill-fate please;
But Death and Love are never found
To give a second wound:

Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
Should you this deny, you'll prove
Nature is averse to Love.

As the wencher loves a lass,
As the toper loves his glass,
As the friar loves his cowl,
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,
Fly precipitate to Love.

We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shurt,

by these.

When the Moon out-shines the Sung

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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


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