If that the Favours greatest are which we
Confer most voluntary, frank, and free;
And if that Benefit we value most,
Which comes the easiest, or in Toil, or Cost,
That courteous Virgin most our Thanks demands,
Who on no Wedlock-Terms precisely stands:
And she who soonest, cheapest, grants her Love,
Does the most honourable Mistress prove:
Who nobly does on her Friend's Faith rely,
Without a Bargain, Bond, or previous Tye.

But Marriage makes the Mode of bart'ring Love
Less generous, as more distrustful prove;

'T is believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiled the same —
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;

Long of soft Words the Pow'r I try'd,
To bend my Chloris 's stubborn Will;
Awake, she still my Suit deny'd,
Asleep, did ev'ry Wish fulfil:
O charming Slumber, that could prove
More kind than all the Pow'rs of Love!

With Gold I strove to tempt her Eyes,
With Love and Musick touch her Ear;
But she did ev'ry Bribe despise,
Nor would my warm Addresses hear:
Had she not slept, I still in vain
Had, waking, urg'd my Love-sick Pain.

God's nature and his name we read
When we behold the Saviour bleed;
And, when we hear his dying groan,
His shame and grief explain our own!

The lustre of the holy law,
Thus honour'd fills our minds with awe
And Calvey's scenes at once reveal
More love and wrath than heav'n and hell

How pure the truth that would not spare
Thine equal, thine eternal heir!
How great the love that freely gave
Thy son thine enemies to save!

Thy just commands, by him obey'd,
In all their beauties stand display'd;

Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find
Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins
New wonder, with old splendor let us bind
Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.

Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry,
Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing;
Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be,
And lamps of silver let us softly swing.

But if at last (hark how I whisper, Love!)

Wound me! Yea, break my heart, if, breaking it
Thou dost acquire mysterious delight.
Torture my spirit through an aching night,
Fill me with pain and longing exquisite,
If at the last for me thy lamp be lit,
And once again I hold thee in my sight.
Gladly I suffer, being Love's eremite;
And if I judged thee, lo! I would acquit.

For grief through thee is dearer than the bliss,
The empty glory of acclaiming men;
Count me thy vassal, if but once thy kiss
Redeem thy wrath; — then wound me, Love, again! —

There are great silences in a great love,
And fools are they who vainly strive to reach
Those shining shores beyond the verge of speech,
Where none should fare — not even the white dove
That hides forever in true lovers' souls,
And blesses them with stillness. There are deeps
That none should desecrate; jealous, Love keeps
Sure watch when passion's ocean round her rolls.

These calms are Love's hid meaning; they contain
The covenant and gospel of Love's years,
The very Bread of beauty and the Wine.

The poet is a prisoner for all time;
But, captive in the shining House of Song,
Life, Love and Sorrow round about him throng,
And sweet are his enchanted chains of rhyme!

How can I help my yielding to Mankind?
All are, alas! too hard for me, I find;
And, the Love-sickness of the Soul will make
The Spirit, for the potent Flesh, too weak.
Then since Resistance makes the Lover more
Exact his Vigour, and provokes his Pow'r,
The vain Repulsing of our Honour's Foes,
Us to their Passion does but more expose;
Why more than They should we our Credit lose,
Who can but ill th' Invader's Force oppose?
That which we can't defend, we must submit
To strong Perswasions urg'd by Love, or Wit;

I.

P HILLIS .

You to another give me now,
Who gave my self to you before;
So more unjust to me you grow,
My Freedom to me to restore;
That Freedom which by Force you strove to take,
But which you now by Force would give me back.

II.

S TREPHON .

To force you to Variety,
Shou'd not my Want of Kindness shew,
Since Women love Inconstancy,