Three Students went over the Rhine one day
And to a good Landlady made their way —

" Now Landlady have you good wine and beer,
" And how is your little Daughter dear " ?

" My wine and beer, is fresh and clear
" On her Deathbed lays my Daughter dear. "

And as they into the Chamber stept
In a black coffin they saw she slept.

The first from her face the white veil took
And look'd at her long with a sorrowful look.

" Ah! wer't Thou alive Thou maiden flower
" Thee should I love from this very hour. "

Give me the avowed, erect and manly foe;
Firm I can meet, perhaps return the blow;
But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send,
Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend.
Quoted by Robert Peel in a parliamentary debate, 1845, Canning's words were turned against him in a triumphant rebuttal by Disraeli (Robert Blake, Disraeli [New York: St. Martin's, 1967], p. 185).

The Candid Friend who strikes because he loves,
Should curb his muscles when he plies the gloves.

And the best gift of God
Is the love of superior souls

— — Love
Asks nought his brother cannot give
Asks nothing but does all receive
Love calls not to his aid events
He to his wants can well suffice
Asks not of others soft consents
Nor kind Occasion without eyes
Nor plots to ope or bolt a gate
Nor heeds Condition's iron walls
Where he goes, goes before him Fate;
Whom he uniteth God instals;
Instant & perfect his access
To the dear object of his thought,
Though foes & lands & seas between
Himself & his love intervene.

I
Winters know
Easily to shed the snow,
And the untaught Spring is wise
In cowslips and anemonies.
Nature, hating art and pains,
Baulks and baffles plotting brains;
Casualty and Surprise
Are the apples of her eyes;
But she dearly loves the poor,
And, by marvel of her own,
Strikes the loud pretender down.
For Nature listens in the rose,
And hearkens in the berry's bell,
To help her friends, to plague her foes,
And like wise God she judges well.
Yet doth much her love excel

CCXIV

Thy promise was to love me best
And that thy heart with mine should rest,
And not to break this thy behest
Thy promise was, thy promise was.

Thy promise was not to acquit
My faithfulness with such despite,
But recompense it if thou might
Thy promise was, thy promise was.

Thy promise was, I tell thee plain,
My faith should not be spent in vain,
But to have more should be my gain
Thy promise was, thy promise was.

Thy promise was to have observed
My faith like as it hath deserved,

TO HIS MISTRESS .

A CARVER , having loved too long in vain,
Hew'd out the portraiture of Venus' son
In marble rock, upon the which did rain
Small drizzling drops, that from a fount did run;
Imagining the drops would either wear
His fury out, or quench his living flame:
But when he saw it bootless did appear,
He swore the water did augment the same.
So I, that seek in verse to carve thee out,

VERSE

You don't know that I felt good
When we up and parted.
You don't know I knocked on wood,
Gladly brokenhearted.
Worrying is through,
I sleep all night,
Appetite and health restored.
You don't know how much I'm bored.

REFRAIN 1

The sleepless nights,
The daily fights,
The quick toboggan when you reach the heights —
I miss the kisses and I miss the bites.
I wish I were in love again!
The broken dates,
The endless waits,

And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk
A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon
Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,
And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime
Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled
Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time
You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw
Me words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long, that raw and ancient cold

Beautie without Love deformitie
Thou art not fayer for all thy red and white,
For all those Rosye temperatures in thee;
Thou art not sweet, though made of meere delight,
Nor fayer nor sweet unlesse thou pittie mee.
Thyne eyes are blacke and yet their glittering brightnes
Can night enlumine in her darkest den;
Thy hands are bloudy thoughts contriv'd of whitnes,
Both blacke and blooddy if they murder men.
Thy browe wheron my good happe doth depend
Fayerer then snow or lyllie in the springe,