Is it hard fare, or is it love
That makes the cat's goodwife so lean?

Rest, little Guest,
Beneath my breast.
Feed, sweet Seed,
At your need.
I took Love for my lord
And this is my reward,
My body is good earth,
That you, dear Plant, have birth.

Can beauty that did prompt me first to write,
Now threaten, with those means she did invite?
Did her perfections call me on to gaze,
Then like, then love; and now would they amaze?
Or was she gracious afar off, but near
A terror? Or is all this but my fear?
That as the water makes things, put in't, straight,
Crookèd appear; so that doth my conceit:
I can help that with boldness; and love sware,
And fortune once, to assist the spirits that dare.
But which shall lead me on? Both these are blind:
Such guides men use not, who their way would find,

Such stolid faces! Do folks sit and stare
Thus always, heavy-eyed?
These women have known love!
Have passed beyond the portals of love's house
And dwelt within, where many things are known,
Yet sit here prim and dull, with no least gleam
Of all the mysteries that love has taught
To give a little radiance to their eyes!

If I had passed that strange, sweet gate, and known
Love's intimate nights and days,
And all the sacred beauties of his house,
Would not my eyes be full of secret lights,
And my lips curve with little lurking smiles,

All things are best when first begun,
A love that 's guessed, a race unrun,
And those bright notes that in the brain
Fall brief, beginnings of the rain,
Just two or one
That splash, and to the dust belong,
And might have been a rush of song.

In a deep mountain lake there sailed a swan,
Far, far away from any human soul;
And daily swam with her a speckled trout,
Who only left her when deep thunder rolled—
Sinking far down where that swan could not dive,
So that she tasted bitterest pangs of love
And drooped upon the water like to die.
And when that trout came near with the blue sky
She brightened over the water like a sail
Set for the harbour after a winter gale.
No solitary ship sailing a land-locked sea
With her own shadow, and no lonely cloud
In water moored, abandoned by the wind,

Loves first warm gushes still their charms reveal
& that bright day when mary first was met
Whose smiles are with me & I almost feel
With thee as bending oer her bosom yet
Heaving confusd its palpitations wild.

For Syrian fields preparing,
Dunois the young and bold,
While trumpet-calls were blaring
And drums impatient rolled,
Two boons the best and rarest
At Mary's shrine implored:
“To love the maiden fairest,
To bear the bravest sword!”

True faith outvalues daring;
Dunois was sword and shield,
His liege's banner bearing
On many a bloody field.
Still faithful, fearless, prayed he,
In camp or march or fight:
“Be mine the fairest lady,
Be hers the bravest knight!”

“And now we are victorious,
Dunois,” declared his lord;

When Beauty fills the lover's eyes,
And lives like doubtful weather,
Her bosom seems to sleep with love;
They lie like birds together.

Love finds them angels ready made,
So beautiful and blooming;
But Time comes in, though half afraid,
And rudely calls them woman.

Time, like a robber, every year
Takes all the fame he gives;
While Beauty only goes away,
And Virtue only lives.

Come , my Corinna, let us try
Which loves you best, of you, and I;
I know you oft have in your glasse,
Seene the faint shaddow of your face,
And, consequently, then became
A wond'ringe lover as I am;
Though not so great a one, for what
You saw, was but a glimpse of that
So sweet, so charminge Majestie,
Which I in its full luster see:
But, if you then had gaz'd upon
Your selfe, as your reflection,
And seene those eys for which I dye,
Perhapps you'd beene as sick, as I.
Thus, Sweetest, then it is confest!
That, of us lovers, I love best;