love poetry

1

Why should I blush or be dismai'd,
To tell you I adore you?
Since Love's a pow'r, that can't be staid,
But must by all be once obey'd,
And you as well as those before you.
Your beauty hath enchain'd my mind,
O let me not then cruel find
You which are fair, and therefore should be kind.

2

1

Prethee, why dost thou love me so?
Or is it but in show?
What is there that your thoughts can pick about me?
If beauty in my face you view,
'Twas ne're writ there unlesse by you,
I little find within, nor you without me.

2

I han't the Rhetorick of the foot,
Nor leane long leg to boot,
Nor can I court with congees, trips, and dances;
I seldom sing, or if I do,

1

'Tis true, I never was in love:
But now I mean to be,
For there's no art
Can shield a heart
From loves Supremacie

2

Though in my nonage I have seen
A world of taking faces;
I had not age nor wit to ken
There several hidden graces

3

Those vertues which though thinly set,
In others are admired,
In thee are altogether met,

1

Nay prithee do, be coy and slight me,
I must love, though thou abhor it;
This pretty niceness does invite me:
Scorne me, and I'll love thee for it
That World of beauty that is in you,
I'll overcome like Alexander
In amorous flames I can continue
Unsing'd, and prove a Salamander.

2

Do not be won too soon I prethee,
But let me woe, whilst thou dost fly me

1

Tell me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curles in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphick voice,
That like an Angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things
But if that thou wilt have me love
And it must be a she,
The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

When the fountain's flow
Shines brilliantly as usual,
And the wild rose appears,
And the little nightingale on the branch
Varies, changes, smooths out
And perfects his sweet song,
It is right that I should rehearse mine.

Love from a distant land,
For you my whole self aches;
And I can find no remedy
Unless I go at her call,
With the lure of sweet love,
In a garden or beneath a curtain
With a desired companion.

Since I get no relief at all,
I am not surprised if I am aflame,

O, thou, who art more fair than words can tell
Or a fond lover's nimble fancy paint,
May I not come to thee, where thou dost dwell
With hope that thou wilt heed my mournful plaint?
O, Love, thou canst not choose but tender be,
Knowing my every heart-beat is for thee!

At Eastertime I love to sing
In summer, at the beginning of May,
When the flower appears on the branch,
And the sword-lilies are again in bloom;
(But) the courtly season is worth little to me,
For I neither have, nor get close to joy,
And I don't boast of its company.

For they have just as much of love —
The base, aggravating good-for-nothings —
As do the best and most worthy;
Youth and Deeds break down and decline,
And Baseness has taken its place
In love affairs, for a lover is not

The time has come for me to sing;
I have been so asleep
That my song has not been heard afar;
But now I am awake,
And I shall regain my joy
In spite of the winter and the cold wind.

I should not run away from joy,
For I have never for a day been graced with it;
And it has surged deeply in my heart,
So that among people I sigh
For the great desire of love that I have;
I neither sleep nor wake, hear nor see.

If ever I stayed awake for love,
Or was a fool or betrayed because of it,

ODE XXIX.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY COLONEL LOVELACE, AFTER HIS CONFINEMENT, WHILE YET IN A STATE OF POVERTY .

I.

Fair charmer, heed not what I say;
This heart, so studious to complain,
When sighing sad, it could not love again,
Breath'd but a false, tho' plaintive lay.

II.

From me Love will not, cannot flee,
That ancient inmate of my breast;