The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun,
With a passionate love I once loved every one.
I love them no more—but I love the completest,
The neatest and meetest, discreetest and sweetest.
She herself is love's well-spring, and other there's none,
For she's rose and she's lily, she's dove and she's sun.

Out of my tears many flowers
In rarest bloom arise,
And the songs of a chorus of nightingales
Re-echo out of my sighs.

And little one, if thou wilt love me,
Thine all the flowers shall be;
And the nightingale at thy window
Shall carol his blithest for thee.

There were four-and-twenty ladies dined i the Queen's ha,
And Jean o Bethelnie was the flower o them a'.

Four-and-twenty gentlemen rode thro Banchory fair,
But bonny Glenlogie was the flower that was there.

Young Jean at a window she chanced to sit nigh,
And upon Glenlogie she fixed an eye.

She called on his best man, unto him did say,
O what is that knight's name? or where does he stay?

‘He 's of the noble Gordons, of great birth and fame;
He stays at Glenlogie, Sir George is his name.’

Then she wrote a broad letter, and wrote it in haste;

“What ails my dearie Love? (the old nurse cried)
This bitter trouble now, my pretty dove,
In me confide.”

“He said my cheeks were thin, that I was pale,
And as I looked I saw his love within
Grow faint, and fail.

“Then when he touched my hand, my heart grew chill;
His touch was cold—I do not understand—
It used to thrill.

“Why should his love have failed that once was bright?
It was for love of him I sighed and paled,
And lost delight.

“I sighed for his return the livelong day,
And O, it is a bitter thing to learn
Love fades away.”

Kupris, hither
Come, and pour from goblets of gold the nectar
Mixt for love's and pleasure's delight with dainty
Joys of the banquet.

Shall we make love
Indoors
On this night when the moon has begun to shine
Over the rushes
Of Inami Moor?

A maid of Christ entreateth me
That I for her a love-song write
By which most plainly she may see
The way to choose a faithful knight;
One that to her shall loyal be
And guard and keep her by his might.
Never will I deny her plea,
To teach her this be my delight.

Maiden, thou mayest well behold
How this world's love is but a race
Beset with perils manifold,
Fickle and ugly, weak and base.
Those noble knights that once were bold
As breath of wind pass from their place,
Under the mold now lie they cold,

Love he to morrow, who lov'd never;
To morrow, who hath lov'd, persever.
The Spring appears, in which the Earth
Receives a new harmonious Birth;
When all things mutual Love unites;
When Birds perform their nuptial rites;
And fruitful by her watry Lover,
Each grove its tresses doth recover;
Loves Queen to morrow, in the shade
Which by these verdant trees is made,
Their sprouting tops in wreaths shall bind,
And Myrtles into Arbours wind;
To morrow rais'd on a high throne,
Dione shall her Laws make known.
Love he to morrow, who lov'd never;

The Goddesse bade the Nymphs remove
Unto the shady Myrtle grove;
The boy goes with the maids, yet none
Will trust, or think love tame is grown,
If they perceive that any where
He Arrows doth about him bear.
Go fearlesse Nymphs, for love hath laid
Aside his Armes, and tame is made.
His weapons by command resign'd,
Naked to go he is enjoyn'd:
Lest he hurt any by his craft,
Either with flame, or bow, or shaft.
But yet take heed young Nymphs, beware
You trust him not, for Cupid's fair,
Lest by his beauty you be harm'd;

The Angel that presided o'er my birth
Said, "Little creature, formed of Joy and Mirth,
Go love without the help of any thing on earth.-3