When lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man wont bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is, to cry!

When I with trembling aske if you love still,
My soule afflicted lest I give offence,
Though sensibly discerning my worst ill;
Yet rather then offend, with griefe dispence.

Faintly you say you must; poore recompence
When gratefull love is fore, I see the hill
Which marres my prospect love, and Oh from thence
I tast, and take of losse the poison'd pill.

While one coale lives, the rest dead all about
That still is fire: so your love now burnd out
Tells what you were, though to deceiving led.

The Sunne in Summer, and in Winter shewes

It was a dreamer, lying at his ease,
Beneath the blossom-heavy apple-trees.
Then seemed it there came near his rose-hid haunt
A way-worn figure, hollow-eyed and gaunt,
With gaze forever fixed upon the ground,
As seeking for his grave with sighs profound.
The beaded drops stood on his brow like dew:
And ever and anon his palm he drew
Across his temples, as if thought opprest,
By bitter memories that refused him rest.
His name was Care. He was an abject wight,
At whom the youthful dreamer laughed outright,
And raised his scornful eyes as if to say—

Torture me not with this or that or this,
Love is my master,
you his lesser self;
while you are Love,
I love you generously,
be Eros,
not a tyrannous, bitter mate:
Love has no charm
when Love is swept to earth:
you'd make a lop-winged god,
frozen and contrite,
of god up-darting
winged for passionate flight.

This my love for thee, my fair one, On what wise shall I assain?
Yea, how long shall I of sorrow For thy sake all night complain?

Long ago past hope of healing Is my frenzied heart become:
Peradventure, of thy tress-tip I may fashion it a chain.

Scope where shall I find and leisure, So the full perplexity,
Which I suffer for thy tress-tip, Once for all I may explain?

What I suffered in the season Of estrangement from thy sight;
'Twere impossible one letter Should the whole of it contain.

On my soul to look whenever I'm desirous, in mine eye

Stay holy fires
Of my desires
Flame nott soe fast;
My loves butt young
From bud new sprunge
Scarce knowes loves taste,

Flames showld nott rise
Till sacrifies
Were reddy made;
A love scarce greene
Was never seene
In withring shade,

Stray till 't'is blowne
If then orethrowne
With curst denyes;
Poore hart swell'out
Send flames about
With murdering eyes,

Summon all men
To Court agen
Wher loves inthround,
If they persist
And smiles resist,
While chast love is scornd,

Then spoile their harts

Down by the river there grows a green willow;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow,
And all for my true love, my true love, O!
When bleak blows the wind, and tempests are beating,
I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating,
For true lovers' joys, well-a-day! are as fleeting.
Sing, O for my true love! my true love, O!

Maids come in pity when I am departed;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
When dead on the bank I am found broken-hearted,

A STRONG , calm, steadfast, single-hearted soul,
Sincere as Truth, and tender like a maid,
He lived as one whom nothing could persuade
From reticence and manly self-control.
Insight, and humour, and the rhythmic roll
Of antique lore, his fertile fancies sway'd,
And with their various eloquence array'd
His sterling English, pure and clean and whole.

Fair Nature mourns him now, as well she may
So apt a pupil and so close a friend;
But what of us, who through his lifelong day
Knew him at home, and loved him to the end?

Returne my thoughts, why fly you soe?
Sorrows may my good outgoe,
Phantsie's butt phantasticks skill
The soule alone hath onely will,

Heathen people had their Gods
Whom they implor'd to have the odds
Of mortalls all, butt 't'would nott bee
For Love was high'st inthron'd to see,

Soe love of all things hath most sight,
And noe thing more then love is light,
Then Cupid take thy honor right:
Thou'rt neither God, nor Earthly sprite.

Disconsolate and sad,
So little hope of remedy I find,
That when my matchless Mistress were inclin'd
To pity me, 'twould scarcely make me glad,
The discomposing of so fair a Mind
B'ing that which would to my Afflictions add.

For when she should repent,
This Act of Charity had made her part
With such a precious Jewel as her Heart,
Might she not grieve that e'r she did relent?
And then were it not fit I felt the smart
Until I grew the greater Penitent.

Nor were't a good excuse,
When she pleas'd to call for her Heart again,