love poetry

It is a fact: we know not why
A fact, but most assuredly
One that experience proves,
Where sensibility doth 'bide
(To passion, that, we mean, allied)
Seldom benevolence doth fix her loves.

Those who require love's genial heat
To cause their pulse with health to beat,
By dire fatality,
These, these will be the reprobates
On whom thy retribution waits,
For every hour of past felicity.

The windy hours through darkness fly—
CansThear them, little heart?
New loves are born, and old loves die,
And kissing lips must part.
The dusky bees of passing years—
Canst see them, soul of mine—
From flower and flower supping tears,
And pale sweet honey wine?

O flame that treads the marsh of time,
Flitting for ever low,
Where, through the black enchanted slime,
We, desperate, following go—
Untimely fire, we bid thee stay!
Into dark air above,
The golden gipsy thins away—
So has it been with love!

All round my that I wore a green ribbon,
All round my hat I wore a green ribbon,
All round my hat for a year and a day;
And if any one asks me the reason I wore it
I'll say that my true love went over the sea!

All in my hat I will stick a blue feather
The same as the birds do be up in the tree;
And if you would ask me the reason I do it
I'll tell you my true love is come back to me!

The third daies worke.

O Loue that liuest in that only light,
Which giues all seeing to all gratious Eies:
But keepest thy sence fro that vngodly sight,
That in the darknes of illusion dies:
Lighten my soule that it may cleerely see
How thou in Wisedome Wisedome liues in thee.

The Angels can in their Attonements tell,
How kindly thou do'st make them liue together:
And where the Saints and holy Martirs dwell
The holy Muses bring their Musique thither:
And while the Hoast of all the Heauens reioyce,

C ORINNA , in the bloom of youth,
Was coy to every lover;
Regardless of the tenderest truth,
No soft complaints could move her:
Mankind was hers, and at her feet
Lay prostrate and adoring,
The witty, valiant, rich and great
Alike in vain imploring.

But now grown old she would repair
The loss of time and pleasure;
With willing looks, and wanton air,
Inviting every gazer.

But love's a summer flower, that dies
With the first weather's changing.
The lover, like the swallow, flies

When Sylvia is kind, and Love plays in her eyes,
I think 'tis no morning till Sylvia does rise;
Of Sylvia the hills and the valleys all ring,
Her beauty's the subject each shepherd does sing:
But, if she proves cruel, how little will move
Those charms which inspired us with raptures of love?
Thy rigour, dear Sylvia, will shorten thy reign,
And make our bright goddess a mortal again.

Love heightens our joys; he's the ease of our care;
Inspires the valiant and crowns all the Fair:
O seize his soft wings then before 'tis too late,

T HYRSIS , unjustly you complain,
And tax my tender heart
With want of pity for your pain,
Or sense of your desert.

By secret and mysterious springs,
Alas! our passions move;
We women are fantastic things,
That like before we love.

You may be handsome, and have wit,
Be secret and well-bred,
The person love must to us fit,
He only can succeed.

Some die, yet never are believed;
Others we trust too soon,
Helping ourselves to be deceived,
And proud to be undone.

Love and Death o' th' way once meeting,
Having passed a friendly greeting,
Sleep their weary eye-lids closing,
Lay them down themselves reposing.
Love, whom divers cares molested,
Could not sleep, but while Death rested,
All in haste away he posts him,
But his haste full dearly costs him;
For it chanced that going to sleeping
Both did give their darts in keeping
Unto Night, who, Error's mother,
Blindly knowing not one from t'other,
Gave Love Death's, and ne'er perceived it,
Whilst as blindly Love received it;

IT is a punishment to love,
And not to love a punishment doth prove;
But of all pains there's no such pain
As 'tis to love, and not be loved again.

Till sixteen, parents we obey;
After sixteen, men steal our hearts away:
How wretched are we women grown,
Whose wills, whose minds, whose hearts are ne'er our own?