Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Courts the amorous marigold
With sighing blasts and weeping rain,
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the planet of the day
Approacheth with his powerful ray,
Then she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.
So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy;
If thy tears and sighs discover
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover;

But when with moving accents thou
Shalt constant faith and service vow,
Thy Celia shall receive those charms

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;
But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream
Of heaven as of a country that should seem
Beyond all glory that divinest art
Has pictured:—with this I have had to part
Since knowing thee;—how long, love, will the gleam
Of each day's sunlight on my pathway stream,
Richer than what seemed richest at the start?
Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat
Make not each happier than the last for me;
Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete
In joy, not the surprise I dreamed 't would be,

Madame, ye been alle beautee shrine
As fer as cercled is the mapemounde:
For as the crystal glorious ye shine,
And like ruby been youre cheekes rounde.
Therwith ye been so merye and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce
It is an oinement unto my wounde,
Though ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For though I weepe of teres ful a tine,
Yit may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Youre semy vois, that ye so smale outtwine,
Maketh my thought in joye and blis habounde:
So curteisly I go with love bounde
That to myself I saye in my penaunce,

Love scorch'd my finger, but did spare
The burning of my heart:
To signifie, in Love my share
Sho'd be a little part.

Little I love; but if that he
Wo'd but that heat recall:
That joynt to ashes burnt sho'd be,
Ere I wo'd love at all.

Love me or not, love her I must or dye;
Leave me or not, follow her needs must I.
O, that her grace would my wisht comforts give:
How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enjoy, her to unite to mee:
Envy should cease, her would I love alone:
Who loves by lookes, is seldome true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawfull were,
Her would I charme softly that none should heare.
But love enforc'd rarely yeelds firme content;
So would I love that neyther should repent.

Look not to me for wisdom,
There's naught you shall be told;
I make the moon my loving cup
And toast the spilling gold.

Look not to me for wisdom—
The cup is warm above,
And I shall drink of kisses,
So look to me for love.

When love speaks well of wisdom,
Watch out, and guard your heart,
Oh, do not give it wholly,
Or happiness depart.

For love with me is courage,
A vagabond, a road,
Two roving underneath the moon,
And on their hearts no load.

For love with me is madness—
Go to, who would be wise!—

In the nativity of time,
Chloris, it was not thought a crime
In direct Hebrew for to woo.
Now we make love as all on fire,
Ring retrograde our loud desire,
And court in English, backward, too.

Thrice happy was that golden age,
When compliment was construed rage,
And fine words in the centre hid;
When cursèd No stained no maid's bliss,
And all discourse was summed in Yes,
And nought forbad, but to forbid.

Love, then unstinted, Love did sip,
And cherries plucked fresh from the lip;
On cheeks and roses free he fed;

It’s often those
who talk a streak
on world affairs
and love and peace
who seem to love
and peace the least.

If only I could pretend to be a bow woven with rattan
and hang on to the shoulders of a Bando lord!
Pretending I'm a bow I've fallen in love with a Bando lord!
Why doesn't my body go to him, as I wish?
Sheer beauty—that's what my Bando lord is!