Now, some there are who whisper love,
And some there are who shout it;
And there are others—see above—
Who merely talk about it.

It's well enough fine words to spill,
Whate'er the lady's station;
But something more is asked for, Bill,
Than highflown conversation.

Young Romeo could talk all day;
Than his no words are warmer.
But when it came to loving—say,
That boy was some performer!

Though ladies fair, of every sort,
Admire a chaste expression,
Don't talk yourself clear out of court,
But exercise discretion.

If love's a folly, what am I,
Who love beyond expression?
If 'tis a crime to be in love,
How great is my transgression!

Then cruel charmer, O! be kind,
And pass my final sentence,
For I am weary of my chains,
And languish for repentance.

Less hate and greed
Is what we need
And more of service true;
More men to love
The flag above
And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag
About the flag,
More faith in what it means;
More heads erect,
More self-respect,
Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight
To keep it bright
Is not along the way,
Nor 'cross the foam,
But here at home
Within ourselves—to-day.

'Tis we must love
That flag above
With all our might and main;
For from our hands,
Not distant lands,
Shall come dishonor's stain.

When you and I are asleep, my love,
Under the carven stone;
Who will there be left to weep, my love,
Of all that we have known?
But the lark will sing as clear and free,
As she springs from her nest by the alder-tree,
And the robin carol his hearts desire,
Above us in the red-rose brier.

Though your voice is low and weak, my dear,
There is love-light in your eye!
Though the roses fade from your cheek, my dear,
Love's roses never die!
Buts it's oh, for the long and lasting sleep,
Where the wild-wood honeysuckles creep!

Upon a lady my love is lente,
Withoutene change of any chere—
That is lovely and continent
And most at my desire.

This lady is in my herte pight;
Her to love I have gret haste.
With all my power and my might
To her I make mine herte stedfast.

Therfor will I non other spouse
Ner none other loves, for to take;
But only to her I make my vowes,
And all other to forsake.

This lady is gentill and meke,
Moder she is and well of all;
She is never for to seke,
Nother too grete ner too small.

Redy she is night and day,

All other love is like the mone
That wext and wanet as flowre in plein,
As flowre that fairet and fawet sone,
As day that scowret and endet in rein.

All other love bigint by blisse,
In wep and wo mak his ending;
No love ther nis that our alle lisse,
Bot what areste in hevene king,

Whos love is … and ever grene,
And ever full withoute waning;
His love sweteth withoute tene,
His love is endless and aring.

All other love I flo for thee;
Tell me, tell me, where thou list?
“In Marye milde and free
I schal be founde, ak mor in Crist.”

Why dost thou sing the threadbare songs of others?
Make thine own classics, of whatever tune.
Write future lullabies that happy mothers
Above abundant breasts may fondly croon.

Love through the ages found its richest vintage
In verse that voiced the dumbness of the throng;
Add to that wealth thy coins of golden mintage.
All lovers that shall be await thy song.

Or, if too far thy loving to remember,
Thou mayst the Laureate of Friendship be,
Find in the ash of Age some welcome ember
And light a passion Love might envy thee.

Of old, or knight or king,
Each feared that Time would bring
Unto the block his head.
Rest peacefully, ye dead:
Yours was a gentle crime.
Now to the block by Time
(Praise the collector's art!)
Is brought one's heart.

Think not, my love, when secret grief
Preys on my sadden'd heart,
Think not I wish a mean relief,
Or would from sorrow part.

Dearly I prize the sighs sincere,
That my true fondness prove,
Nor would I wish to check the tear,
That flows from hapless love!

Alas! tho' doom'd to hope in vain
The joys that love requite,
Yet will I cherish all its pain,
With sad, but dear delight.

This treasur'd grief, this lov'd despair,
My lot for ever be;
But, dearest, may the pangs I bear
Be never known to thee!

Here lies who lov'd his glass, and sung, and play'd:
The Muse with Love and Fancy he caress'd;
Was in the lap of Joy and Beauty laid,
By Wit enliven'd, and with feelings blest:
Adversity, with cheerful spirit brav'd—
Nor felt a moment's pain unless to find,
That many an hour his arm no friend had sav'd,
His love no mistress in its chains could bind.