love poetry

1.

Madam, believe 't, Love is not such a toy,
As it is sport but for the Idle Boy,
Or wanton Youth, since it can entertain
Our serious thoughts, and make us know how vain
All time is spent we do not thus imploy.

2.

For though strong passion oft on youth doth seize,
It is not yet affection, but disease,
Caus'd from repletion, which their blood doth vex,
So that they love not Woman, but the Sex,

1.

Since in your face, as in a beauteous sphere,
Delight and state so sweetly mix'd appear,
That Love's not light, nor Gravity severe,
All your attractive Graces seem to draw,
A modest rigor keepeth so in aw,
That in their turns each of them gives the law.

2.

Therefore though chast and vertuous desire
Through that your native mildness may aspire,
Untill a just regard it doth acquire;

PETER PUMPKIN-HEAD

DEFEATED BY TABITHA TOWZER.

CANTO I .

Of Tabitha Towzer I sing,
Pray list to my delicate ditty,
My verse like brass kettle shall ring,
Or sleigh bells, which gingle so pretty.

Then loud as a conch shell I'll sound,
In this my fine cantering metre,
What virtues and graces abound
In Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.

Crown me Bacchus, mighty god,
The victory is thine,
Cupid's bow yields to thy rod,
And love submits to wine:

Love, the dream of idle boys,
That makes the sage an ass,
Love cannot vie with those sweet joys
That crown the sparkling glass.

II.

To plunge in care let lovers whine,
Such fools who will be may,
Good fellows glass in hand combine

They that for freedom feel not love but lust,
Irreverent, knowing not her spiritual claim,
And they, the votaries blind of windy fame.
And they who cry, " I will because I must " ;
They too that launch, screened by her shield august,
A bandit's shaft, some private mark their aim;
And they that make her sacred cause their game,
From restlessness or spleen or sheer disgust
At duteous days — all these, the brood of night,
Diverse, by one black note detected stand,
Their scorn of every barrier raised by right

FOR A FIGURE REPRESENTING THE GOD OF LOVE .

Whoe'er thou art, thy lord and master see;
Thou wast my slave, thou art, or thou shalt be.

The heart that throbbed at Glory's voice
And followed in her train,
Although in sloth it slumbers long,
May wake to life again.
But ah! when once true love has bloomed,
As many a heart can prove,
The fragrance wasted ne'er returns —
'T is only once we love.

I tread the sunny paths of life,
'Mid beauty's proud array,
But the spell that lent a charm to all
Has mist-like passed away.
No more the thrill from mingled pulse
The eloquent low sigh,
Nor the unbidden tear of joy

The air is soft and balmy,
And the moon shines clear and bright,
So throw your lattice wide, Ladie,
And bless my eyes to-night.
No smoothly polished lay I sing
Like courtly chevalier,
Yet let the soldier's tale of love
Fall sweetly on your ear.

I come from far countree,
From the land of tropic sun,
Where fame, and wreaths of laurel
And glorious names are won;
Where the dews of night fall harmlessly
On the saber's polished side
As the dews of Time but strengthen
My soul's love for its bride.

There beat a young heart which had never known love,
'T was as fresh as the bloom of the red summer rose,
Till the merry God smiled from the regions above,
And launched a bright arrow, that broke its repose.

He launched a bright arrow, that broke its repose.
When the fairy-like maiden was smiling in sleep;
The wound was a-bleeding, when just as love rose,
Old Time chanced along on his pinions to sweep:

Old Time chanced along on his pinions to sweep,
And on the new wound that the arrow had made,

Do salmons love a lucid stream?
Do thirsty sheep love fountains?
Do Druids love a doleful theme?
Or goats the craggy mountains?

If it be true these things are so,
As truly she's my lovey,
And os wit I yng carie I,
Rool fit dwyn de girie di,
As ein, dai, tree, pedwar, pimp, chweck go