A Virgin, Wife , and Widow three that One
Held rarely perfect in like Vnion ,
Incites my Muse: nay, more, doth her constrain
To empt my Pen of Praise , of Wit my Braine
In her deserued honor: she whose all
Was nought but good ; yet so, as we may call
That good but nought (and iustly) if the same
Giue not her goodnesse glory more than fame!
A Maide , in whom Virginitie gaue place
(Though most exact) to Modestie and Grace .
A Wife (who like old Josephs blessed Bride )
Though wedded , but unbedded till she dide,

Before an Altar

I wish I were the little key
That locks Love's Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,
When every flash lights holy prayer
Upon its way above.

He who wills life wills its condition sweet,
Having made love its mother, joy its quest,
That its perpetual sequence might not rest
On reason's dictum, cold and too discreet;

For reason moves with cautious, careful feet,
Debating whether life or death were best,
And why pale pain, not ruddy mirth, is guest
In many a heart which life hath set to beat.

But I will cast my fate with love, and trust
Her honeyed heart that guides the pollened bee
And sets the happy wing-seeds fluttering free;

There is a flower, whose modest eye
Is turn'd with looks of light and love,
Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh.
Whene'er the sun is bright above.

Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil,
Her fond idolatry is fled,
Her sighs no more their sweets exhale.
The loving eye is cold — and dead.

Canst thou not trace a moral here,
False flatterer of the prosperous hour?
Let but an adverse cloud appear,
And Thou art faithless, as the Flower!

I saw a little burnished fly
Within my mistress' bodice lie,
Sipping lovely stolen sweets
From her ample rosy teats.

" Small adulterer," said I,
" Dost thou know where thou dost lie?
'Tis my lady's bosom fine!
And thou dost sip what is not thine"

Since thou came'st not at morn, come not at even;
Let night close peaceful where it hath begun.
Affrighten not the restful stars from heaven
With futile after-glimpses of the sun.
My heart inclines me, but my lands are wasted,
My treasure spent, and evening closes dim;
Spring's fair demesne the chilling frost hath tasted—
I have no house for Love to shelter him.

No raiment fair to clothe his limbs so tender;
No spicèd wines to cool his burning lip;
No garlands wherewithal to crown his splendor;
No lute to tune to songful fellowship.

To my most louing and highly valued friend, Mr Nathaniell Tomphins

T O pay you (deere Nathaniell) with that gold
I once receauèd of you, is but right;
Yours gaue mee glory; then your debter should.
Giue you the same, with wearing made more bright:
 But (ah) I cannot, sith you still refine.
 Your worthes, which at the worst, farre passèd mine.

" Linger, " I cried, " O radiant Time! thy power
Has nothing more to give, life is complete:
Let but the perfect Present, hour by hour,
Itself remember and itself repeat.

" And Love, — the future can but mar its splendor,
Change can but dim the glory of its youth;
Time has no star more faithful or more tender
To crown its constancy or light its truth. "

But Time passed on in spite of prayer or pleading,
Through storm and peril; but that life might gain
A Peace through strife all other peace exceeding,
Fresh joy from sorrow, and new hope from pain.

I.

A trinket made like a Heart, dear,
Of red gold, bright and fine,
Was given to me for a keepsake,
Given to me for mine.

And another heart, warm and tender,
As true as a heart could be;
And every throb that stirred it
Was always and all for me.

Sailing over the waters,
Watching the far blue land,
I dropped my golden heart, dear,
Dropped it out of my hand!

It lies in the cold, blue waters,
Fathoms and fathoms deep,
The golden heart which I promised
Promised to prize and keep.

Gazing at Life's bright visions,

Most noble lord, that truest worthinesse
Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth presse me now to make them passe the Presse
Led thereto by these too-slacke twisted lines
Thou art a subiect worthy of the Muse
When most she raignes in height of happinesse;
Into whose noble spright the heauens infuse
All guifts and graces gracing noblenesse.
In few, there are so many parts in thee
(All wholy noble) as thus fixt shall bee
On Fames wings when she past herselfe doth flee.