A kernel from an apple's core
One day on either cheek I wore,
Lubin was plac'd on my right cheek,
That on my left did Hodge bespeak;

Hodge in an instant dropt to ground,
Sure token that his love's unsound,
But Lubin nothing could remove,
Sure token his is constant love.

II.

Last May I sought to find a snail,
That might my lover's name reveal,
Which finding, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the embers spread;

When, if my letters I can tell,

Say not you love, unlesse you do,
For lying will not profit you. Ladie:
Sir, I do love with love most true:
I will not love, unlesse't be you. Ra:
You say I lie, I say you lie, choose you whether,
But if we both lie, lets lie both together.

UPON A DRINKING-GLASS

The gods of Wine, and Wit, and Love, prepare,
With cheerful bowls, to celebrate the fair;
Love is enjoin'd to name his fav'rite toast,
And Hare's the goddess that delights him most:
Phaebus approves, and bids the trumpets sound,
And Bacchus, in a bumper, sends it round.

Written under a picture of the

COUNTESS OF SANDWICH DRAWN IN MAN'S HABIT ,

When Sandwich in her sex's garb we see,
The queen of Beauty then she seems to be;
Now fair Adonis in this male-disguise,
Or little Cupid with his mother's eyes:
No style of empire chang'd by this remove,
Who seem'd the goddess seems the god of Love.

Sheepheard, what's Love, I pray thee tell? Faustus .
It is that Fountaine, and that Well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell,
That toules all into heaven or hell,
And this is Love as I heard tell. Meli .
Yet what is Love, I pre-thee say? Fau .
It is a worke on holy-day,
It is December match'd with May,
When lustie-bloods in fresh aray,
Heare ten moneths after of the play,
And this is Love, as I heare say. Meli .

Alas you know not what you bid me do!
He, who loves well, can ne'er distinguish, too.
To paint you, justly, asks cool reason — I
Thro' passion's faithless glass, should look too high.
If, when I trace you, absent, killing fair!
I catch the aguish influence of despair;
To search you, near, my soul cou'd ne'er endure,
Without dissolving quite, in love's hot calenture .

Hands that I loved long years ago —
Dear hands.
Caressive as the desert breezes blow,
They call to me across the sands,
Across the waste, wild prairie lands;
For once they were my own
To kiss and fondle and entwine
With mine.

My fragrant flow'rs the summer suns had sown,
Pink-petalled finger-tips
(Heaven to my lips!)
Sweet violet veins that trace
And keep the pressure of a lost embrace.
They were such white hands,
Pale as the new-lain snow on winter lands;
Dear hands of my delight,

Young Tyrant of the bow and wings,
Thy altar asks three precious things;
The heart's, the world's most precious three,
Courage, and Time, and Constancy!
And Love must have them all, or none:
By Time he 's wearied, but not won;
He shrinks from Courage hot and high;
He laughs at tedious Constancy;
But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime,
Are given to Courage, Constancy, and Time.

And why, fair Trifler , does that meaning eye
Smile, in contempt , when lovers swear they die?
'Twixt death , and love , but one small diff'rence lies,
The soul , in both , from its left body flies:
In death , 'tis gone, like smoak , dissolv'd in air,
Lost, in expance, the loser knows not where:
In love , we trace it, with such willing pain ,
'Twere to die twice , to take it back again.

I'm thinking, Charles, 't is just a year,
Or will be, very soon,
Since first you told me of your love,
One glorious day in June.

All nature seemed to share our bliss, —
The skies hung warm above,
The winds from opening roses bore
The very breath of love!

We sought the still, deep forest shades,
Within whose leafy gloom
Few ardent sunbeams stole to kiss
The young buds into bloom;