Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen,
Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells,
Nor sleep's the fountain's wealth, I ween,
For ever in its sparry wells;
The spells of the enchanter lie
Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and eye.
I look upon a face as fair
As ever made a lip of heaven: Falter amid its music-prayer!
The first-lit star of summer even Springs not so softly on the eye,
Nor grows, with watching, half so bright,. Nor, mid its sisters of the sky,
So seems of heaven the dearest light;
Men murmur where that face is seen
My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.
Yet, though we deem the stars are blest,
And envy, in our grief, the flower
That bears but sweetness in its breast,
And fear'd the enchanter for his power,
And love the minstrel for his spell
He winds out of his lyre so well;.
The stars are almoners of light,.
The lyrist of melodious air,
The fountain of its waters bright,
And everything most sweet and fair
Of that by which it charms the ear,
The eye of him that passes near;
A lamp is lit in woman's eye
That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by..
SHALL I like a hermit dwell,
On a rock, or in a cell?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize,
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too :
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !
WRONG not, sweet mistress of my heart!
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart
Who sues for no compassion:
Since if my plaints were not to' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear to' exceed my duty.
For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire but none deserve
A place in her affection;
I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.
Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
O Do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing!
Nor cast them down; but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.
O be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me!
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.
O do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me :
Nor spread them, as distract with fears;
Mine own enough betray me!
FOR love's sake, kiss me once again!
Ilong, and should not beg in vain:
Here's none to spy, or see;
Why do you doubt, or stay?
I'll taste as lightly as the Bee, That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.
Once more, and (faith) I will be gone :
Can he that loves, ask less than one?
Nay you may err in this,
And all your bounty wrong;
This could be call'd but half a kiss. What we're but once to do, we should do long.
I will but mend the last; and tell
Where, how it would have relish'd well;
Join lip to lip, and try
Each to suck other's breath;
And, whilst our tongues perplexed lie,
Let who will think us dead, or wish our death!
LET fools great Cupid's yoke disdain,
Loving their own wild freedom better;
Whilst, proud of my triumphant chain,
I sit and court my beauteous fetter.
Her murdering glances, snaring hairs,
And her bewitching smiles so please me,
As he brings ruin that repairs
The sweet afflictions that disease me.
Hide not those panting balls of snow,
With envious veils, from my beholding;
Unlock those lips, their pearly row
In a sweet smile of love unfolding.
And let those eyes whose motion wheels
The restless fate of every lover,
Survey the pains my sick heart feels,
And wounds themselves have made discover!
How ill doth he deserve a Lover's name,
Whose pale weak flame
His heart, in spite of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper set on fire,
Burn and expire!
True love can never change his seat;
Nor did he ever love, that could retreat.
That noble flame which my breast keeps alive, Still shall survive
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