Y. With what respect
Yon burgher bows to you.
  A. He is a fool:
He ducks unto my purse, which will not open;
Passing you by, whom radiant youth and love,
And hope and health, (the kingly wine of life,)
And earnest thoughts of noble deeds to come,
Sustain and strengthen. Yet, be not too proud:
For dreams are fading. As you sit beside
The stream that flows into oblivion,
Gathering the golden pebbles from its banks,
Summer will pass, and Autumn, moaning low,
(And you will hear them not;) and suddenly

Sigh not for Children. Thou wilt love them much;
And Care will follow Love, and then Despair.
First, one will sicken; then, another leave thee
For the base world; and he thou lov'st the most,—
The light o' thy life, girl, will go out at last,
Like fading starlight; leaving thee, alone,
To sordid thoughts and childless misery.

The love of parents hath a deep still source;
And falleth like a flood upon their child.
Sometimes the child is grateful: then his love
Comes like the spray returning.—In this case,
A father, full of truth, has checked his son;
Harshly perhaps; for many a benefit
Puts on the vizor of a stern reproof:
But, oh! within, (as roughest rinds conceal
The tenderest kernels,) gentle thoughts abide:
Sweet meanings; seeds that, if the soil be sure,
Will bring forth fruits of wisdom.

Nature never made
A heart all marble; but, in 'ts fissures, sows
The wild flower Love; from whose rich seeds spring forth
A world of mercies and sweet charities.

Look , where she stands! Hath the magician Love
Touched her to stone? No, no: she breathes, she moves!
Beauty sits bravely in her glittering eye;
And passion stains her cheek. What thoughts are these,
Unfolding like rose flowers at dawn of day?—
Methinks she sees the sunny Future lie
Basking before her.

Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of,—when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.

I LOVE this light:
'Tis the old age of Day, methinks; or haply
The infancy of Night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.

Love follows not desert, but accident.
We love—because we love: I know no more.
'Tis not great thoughts, nor noble qualities,
Nor conduct pure compel it. These rather challenge
Our deep respect than Love: That sweet emotion
Owes to our tender hearts its gentle force.
And scorns all meaner reason.

In Love's garden next I stood
Mid the myrtle's green increase,
Where great roses red as blood
Dreamed their passion into peace.
From his mansion marvellous
Made of amorous apple-boughs, —
Whose soft slow blush-tinted showers
Knolled the noiseless-footed hours, —
Forth came Love, a shepherd lad,
Star-eyed, ruddy-limbed, unclad,
Bringing flower-wine of his valleys
In a sorrow-charming chalice,
Spiced with myrrh and magic root.
Straight I drank: the while his flute
Gurgling loosed my speechless grief,

What will Love not compel! Though Pudens murmured " No,"
Yet he did not prevent young Encolpos, and so
He cut off his hair, while his master wept sore
And complained, like Apollo and Phaethon of yore;
Than Hylas more fair or Achilles, when he
Rejoiced from his mother's love-locks to be free;
In return for the gift may he beardless remain,
And though his hair's short seem a boy once again.