The whole life is lost in the love of ill desires.
Thus three stages of life have passed: the hairs of the head are grown grey.

The breath is choked: it comes no more to the mouth: but is as the Moon in the grip of Ketu.
As he who forsaking Ganga drinks water from his well, are they who forsake Hari and worship demons.

Living in sloth they have forgotten Gobind, and are drowned with all the rest.
O Sur Das, without money without price thou mayest take the name of Rama.

In early days the woman was my queen;
The fair sweet maiden, crowned with first love's flowers.
With her I wandered through the in woven bowers
Of first love, — marked the young moon's silver sheen
Upon the deep, or heard the echoing shore
Ring to the white waves, answering their roar:
With her I lingered through the summer hours
Or smote the river tides with laughing oar.

I sought no further than the simple boon
Of simple maiden love: sufficient bliss
Had been the bounty of her red-lipped kiss;

I.

The year is flying, dying, —
Soon its flowers will flee;
Its tender soft red roses,
Its leafy verdant closes, —
Soon autumn will be crying,
" What is left for me? "

II.

The old loves are flying, dying, —
With all their soft-voiced glee;
Their ripples of sweet laughter

Thou that art my life and solace,
O no longer look upon me,
To such love thy eyes have won me.
For thy fair eyes have such power,
They give thousand years of sadness —
Thou of loveliness the flower —
In each instant of each hour,
And I fear to lose my gladness.
O no longer look upon me,
To such love thy eyes have won me.

My Mary's eyes — my Mary's eyes —
What would I give, to be where they
Are looking blue as summer skies,
And shedding joy with ev'ry ray?

And then her little rosy lip,
That breathes my name with such a grace,
If I could now its nectar sip,
T'would brighten up this lonely place.

There's music in her roughest tone,
There's magic in her ev'ry motion.
I'd rather be with her alone,

Of love fayne woolde I frame my style
yett nott to flatter nor beguyle
For they that so theyr woords doo fyle
and use a glosinge kinde of vayne
Feele nott in deede that force of love
Nor yett so many torments prove
As from theyr brestes; your hartes to move
They forced sobbes and sorrowes fayne

Their careles truste their fayned awe
Is butt as fire thats made off strawe
Their teares they shedd and sighes they drawe
Are naughte butt winds and Apryll showers
Their dolefull songes off rare devyce
Is nothinge els butt to entyce

The coy Pastora Damon woo'd,
Damon the witty and the gay;
Damon, who never fair pursu'd
But she became an easy prey.
Yet, with this nymph, his ev'ry power
In vain he tries, no language moves;
Thus do we see the tender flower
Shrink from the sun whose warmth it loves.

II.

Piqued at the little angry puss,
Cry'd he, she sets me all on fire!

1

Love, oh love, oh careless love,
Love, oh love, oh careless love,
Oh it's love, oh love, oh careless love
You see what careless love has done.

2

Once I wore my apron low,
Once I wore my apron low,
Oh it's once I wore my apron low
You'd follow me through rain and snow.

3

Now I wear my apron high,
Now I wear my apron high,
Oh it's now I wear my apron high,
You'll see my door and pass it by.

4

I cried last night and the night before,
I cried last night and the night before,

Passion is blind not Love: her wondrous might
Informs with three-fold pow'r man's inward sight: —
To her deep glance the soul at large displayed
Shews all its mingled mass of light and shade: —
Men call her blind when she but turns her head,
Nor scans the fault for which her tears are shed.
Can dull Indifference or Hate's troubled gaze
See through the secret heart's mysterious maze? —

Can Scorn and Envy pierce that " dread abode",
Where true faults rest beneath the eye of God?
Not theirs, 'mid inward darkness, to discern

My youthful compeer once was rosy Health
She led me forth beside the sparkling rills;
But Love by Fortune ruled came but by stealth,
And while my feet were bounding o'er the hills
This heart was heavy with a load of care;
Mine eyes turned inward on a shadowed mind:
That Lake was bright — but Henry was not there:
In vain does Nature smile when Love's unkind.

Youth shed around me his ethereal light;
Seen through those beams this face awhile seemed fair;
If not of heavenly mould 'twas soft and bright,