As once, at midnight deep, I lay with sleepless eyes,
These words between the moth and light did me surprise.
The moth kisses the flame, and says, with tender sigh:
“Dear radiance! I rejoice from love for thee to die.
My love, thou diest not, yet anxious groans and strong
Break loudly from thy heart, through all the darkness long!”
The bright flame says, “O moth! whom love to me attracts,
Know that I also burn with love for this sweet wax.
Must I not groan, as more my lover melting sinks,
And from his life my fatal fire still deeper drinks?”

That Love last long; let it thy first care be
To find a Wife, that is most fit for Thee.
Be She too wealthy, or too poore; be sure,
Love in extreames, can never long endure.

Lovely fairy! Charming sprite!
Kindly listen and appear,
Whether bathed in dewdrops bright,
Or in chrystal riv'lets clear.

Howe'er divine, the mortal youth
Yet hopes thy gentleness to move,
With the soft energy of truth,
And the prevailing voice of love.

Put down your pen, said love, and start again,
The pen has done for love all that the pen can do,
The pen has done all things but live, yet life is love.
Now I demand of you confirming deeds,
Demand the notes so long accrued—their pay in full,
The notes of prophet voices and poet rhymes and echoing formulas,
The notes of sinais, meccas, sepulchers and crosses,
In lieu of dead postponements long decreed.

“G IVE me a fillet, Love,” quoth I,
“To bind my Sweeting's heart to me,
So ne'er a chance of earth or sky
Shall part us ruthlessly:
A fillet, Love, but not to chafe
My Sweeting's soul, to cause her pain;
But just to bind her close and safe
Through snow and blossom and sun and rain:
A fillet, boy!”
Love said, “Here's joy.”

“Give me a fetter, Life,” quoth I,
“To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart,
So Death himself must fail to pry
With Time the two apart:
A fetter, Life, that each shall wear,
Whose precious bondage each shall know.

My Sandy gied to me a ring,
Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge o' his ring.

My Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bony, bony Sandy O;
Tho' the love that I owe to thee I dare na show,
Yet I love my love in secret my Sandy O.

My Sandy brak a piece o' gowd,
While down his cheeks the saut tears row'd;
He took a hauf and gied it to me,
And I'll keep it till the hour I die.
My Sandy O &c.

Thou Cause and Subject, once of Wit, and Love!
Whose Love alone, cou'd Mens good Sense improve;
For, tho' our Love of other Women does,
Good Wits, and all their Good Parts, more expose
Our Love of you, but more our Reason shows;
Since Man, in you, can at the same time, find
The Pleasure of the Body, and the Mind;
Once, to your Shame, your Parts to all were shown,
But now, (tho' a more Public Woman grown,)
You gain more Reputation in the Town;
Grow Public, to your Honour, not your Shame,
As more Men now you please, gain much more Fame;

Love, thou has train'd me in a school severe.
‘This man,’ thou said'st, ‘knows somewhat of my lore,
But not enough; lo! I will teach him more.’
So Sorrow came, and sojourn'd with me here,
Wearing the form and face to me most dear.
Then learn'd I laws of thine, but guess'd before,
The hard, hard lesson conning o'er and o'er,
While on the page fell many a bitter tear.
Still Self within me feebly strove; but when
Death came and hid my angel from my sight—
Not from my soul—Self died, and rose again
Newborn, in one joint being blent with her.

Oh mistress mine! where are you roaming?
Oh! stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure. II, iii

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die. I, i
That strain again! It had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more.
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price