For shame, thou everlasting Woer,
Still saying Grace and ne're fall to her!
Love that's in Contemplation plac't,
Is Venus drawn but to the Wast.
Unlesse your Flame confesse its Gender,
And your Parley cause surrender,
Y'are Salamanders of a cold desire,
That live untouch't amid the hottest fire.

What though she be a Dame of stone,
The Widow of Pigmalion ;
As hard and un-relenting She,
As the new-crusted Niobe ;
Or what doth more of Statue carry
A Nunne of the Platonick Quarrey?
Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred,

For many unsuccessful years
At Cynthia's feet I lay;
And often bath'd them with my tears,
Despair'd, but durst not pray.

No prostrate wretch, before the shrine
Of any saint above,
E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.

Still the disdainful dame look'd down
With an insulting pride;
Receiv'd my passion with a frown,
Or toss'd her head aside.

When Cupid whisper'd in my ear,
"Use more prevailing charms,
Fond, whining, modest fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms.

For love he offered me his perfect world.
This world was so constricted, and so small,
It had no sort of loveliness at all,
And I flung back the little silly ball.
At that cold moralist I hotly hurled
His perfect, pure, symmetrical, small world.

Ode

I

Fond Love, deliver up thy Bow,
I am becom more Love than thou;
I am a wanton growne, and wild,
Much lesse a Man, and more a Child,
From Venus borne, of chaster kind,
A better Archer, though as blind.

II

Surrender without more adoe,
I am both King and Subject too,
I will comand, but must obey,
I am the Hunter, and the Prey,
I vanquish, yet am over come,
And sentencing, receive my doom.

III

No springing Beauty scapes my dart,
And ev'ry ripe one wounds my heart;

I
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
II

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
III

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
IV

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:

The first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.

The second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Two turtle doves,
A partridge in a pear tree.

The third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.

The fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Four colly birds,
Three French hens
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.

The fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me

I saw a Tiger's golden flank,
I saw what food he ate,
By a desert spring he drank;
The Tiger's name was Hate.

Then I saw a placid Lamb
Lying fast asleep;
Like a river from its dam
Flashed the Tiger's leap.

I saw a Lion tawny-red,
Terrible and brave;
The Tiger's leap overhead
Broke like a wave.

In sand below or sun above
He faded like a flame.
The Lamb said, " I am Love;
Lion, tell your name. "

The Lion's voice thundering
Shook his vaulted breast,
" I am Love. By this spring,

Watching love stories on TV,
watching a movie,
I wonder where we are.
I've wondered for a long time.
I've never seen any of us there,
straight on, like nouvelle vague lovers,
like psychedelic dancers.
I've never seen us, arms akimbo,
standing in the morning, waiting,
lying around in grassy meadows,
reeling in the pounding surf in a
burst of sunshine —
pale colors out of focus
or in focus, bright colors,
black and whites . . .

Where have we been all this time?
Where are we now, the right now which

Fair ! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love and you.
Joy salutes me, when I set
My blessed eyes on Amoret;
But with wonder I am strook,
When I on the other look.
If sweet Amoret complains
I have sense of all her pains;
But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine;
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And, those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

I

Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her:
God and she and I only, there I sat down to draw her
Soul through the clefts of confession:
" Speak, I am holding thee fast,
As the angel of resurrection shall do at the last!"
" My cup is blood-red
With my sin," she said,
" And I pour it out to the bitter lees,
As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last,