Love. — Shakspeare. ALAS, that Love, whose view is muffled still, WHAT is Love? 'tis not the kiss Even while we cherish : The fleeting Charm and what so fleet as this? Who loves for years, and loves but one. Lobe. Shakspeare. How wayward is this foolish Love, That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, And presently, all humbled, kiss the Rod? Lobe. Shakspeare. OUR separation so abides, and flies, That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me, Love.-Campbell. O LOVE! in such a wilderness as this, And here thou art a God indeed divine; Small Love behold the spark of earth-born Time expire. Он, for a Falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy Tongue more hoarse than mine Love. Shakspeare. WHAT! keep a Week away? seven Days and Nights? Eightscore Eight Hours? and Lovers' absent Hours, More tedious than the dial, eightscore times? Oh weary Reck'ning! S Love.Shakspeare. So holy and so perfect is my Love, And I in such a poverty of Grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main Harvest reaps: loose now and then Love. - Byron. Love. - Shakspeare. I DID not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him, How I would think on him, at certain Hours, Such Thoughts, and such; Or have charged him At the sixth hour of Morn, at Noon, at Midnight, To encounter me with Orisons, for then I am in Heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting Kiss, which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my Father, And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, Shakes all our Buds from growing. Love. Shakspeare. WHILE injury of chance Puts back Leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our Lips Of all rejoyndure, forcibly prevents Our lock'd Embraces, strangles our dear Vows, Even in the birth of our own labouring Breath. We two, that with so many thousand Sighs Each other bought, must poorly sell ourselves. With the rude Brevity and Discharge of one. Injurious Time now, with a robber's haste, Crams his rich thiev'ry up, he knows not how. As many Farewells as be stars in Heaven, With distinct breath and consign'd Kisses to them, He fumbles up all in one loose Adieu; And scants us with a single famish'd Kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken Tears. Love. - Spenser. FOR Lovers' Eyes more sharply sighted be OH! who, that has ever had Rapture complete, Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it? Love.-Shakspeare. That, like a Jewel, has hung twenty years, Love. - Shakspeare. YOU are a Lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound. . . I am too sore empierced with his Shaft, To soar with his light feathers; and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull Wo: Under Love's heavy burden do I sink. Love. - Shakspeare. LOVE goes toward Love, as school-boys from their books; But Love from Love, toward school with heavy looks. Love. Spenser. No lesse was she in secret Hart affected, But that she masked it with Modestie For feare she should of Lightnesse be detected. Love. - Shakspeare. I WOULD have thee gone; And yet no farther than a wanton's Bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Lobe. Shakspeare. I WILL wind thee in my arms; So doth the Woodbine, the sweet Honey-suckle, Enrings the barky fingers of the Elm. Love. - Shakspeare. LOVERS and Madmen have such seething brains, Love. Spenser. SHEE greatly gan enamoured to wex, And with vain thoughts her falsed fancy vex: Her fickle Hart conceived hasty Fyre, Like sparkes of Fire that fall in sclender flex, And ransackt all her veines with Passion entyre. SHE loves but knows not whom she loves, Love.-Shakspeare. Now by the jealous queen of Heaven, that Kiss Love. - Spenser. SAD, solemne, sowre, and full of Fancies fraile Yet wist she was not well at ease perdy, Yet thought it was not Love but some Melancholy. Lobe. Shakspeare. Он, what damn'd Minutes tells he o'er, Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly loves! Love. -Byron. IT was such pleasure to behold him, such To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: To live with him for ever were so much But then the thought of parting made her quake: He was her own, her Ocean-treasure, cast Like a rich Wreck-her First love, and her Last. Love. Mrs. Tighe. UNHAPPY Psyche! soon the latent wound Her Eyes' bright Beams, in swimming sorrows drown'd, She shuns adoring crowds, and seeks to hide The secret Grief she owns, for which she lingering sigh'd. Love. — Shakspeare. ALL thy vexations Were but my trials of thy Love, and thou Love. Spenser. THE rolling Wheel, that runneth often round, And when I wail, she turns herself to Laughter: Love. - Shakspeare. But my Kisses bring again, Seals of Love, but seal'd in vain. Lobe. Shakspeare. Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine Ears, that heard her flattery; nor my Heart, That thought her like her Seeming: it had been vicious, To have mistrusted her. |