When the fountain's flow
Shines brilliantly as usual,
And the wild rose appears,
And the little nightingale on the branch
Varies, changes, smooths out
And perfects his sweet song,
It is right that I should rehearse mine.

Love from a distant land,
For you my whole self aches;
And I can find no remedy
Unless I go at her call,
With the lure of sweet love,
In a garden or beneath a curtain
With a desired companion.

Since I get no relief at all,
I am not surprised if I am aflame,

O, thou, who art more fair than words can tell
Or a fond lover's nimble fancy paint,
May I not come to thee, where thou dost dwell
With hope that thou wilt heed my mournful plaint?
O, Love, thou canst not choose but tender be,
Knowing my every heart-beat is for thee!

At Eastertime I love to sing
In summer, at the beginning of May,
When the flower appears on the branch,
And the sword-lilies are again in bloom;
(But) the courtly season is worth little to me,
For I neither have, nor get close to joy,
And I don't boast of its company.

For they have just as much of love —
The base, aggravating good-for-nothings —
As do the best and most worthy;
Youth and Deeds break down and decline,
And Baseness has taken its place
In love affairs, for a lover is not
Loved, nor enjoys a beloved.

The time has come for me to sing;
I have been so asleep
That my song has not been heard afar;
But now I am awake,
And I shall regain my joy
In spite of the winter and the cold wind.

I should not run away from joy,
For I have never for a day been graced with it;
And it has surged deeply in my heart,
So that among people I sigh
For the great desire of love that I have;
I neither sleep nor wake, hear nor see.

If ever I stayed awake for love,
Or was a fool or betrayed because of it,
Or was crossed by a fickle woman,

ODE XXIX.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY COLONEL LOVELACE, AFTER HIS CONFINEMENT, WHILE YET IN A STATE OF POVERTY .

I.

Fair charmer, heed not what I say;
This heart, so studious to complain,
When sighing sad, it could not love again,
Breath'd but a false, tho' plaintive lay.

II.

From me Love will not, cannot flee,
That ancient inmate of my breast;
No! — he must be my constant, constant guest,

I

Love that 's loved from day to day
Loves itself into decay:
He that eats one daily fruit
Shrivels hunger at the root.
Daily pleasure grows a task;
Daily smiles become a mask.
Daily growth of unpruned strength
Expands to feebleness at length.
Daily increase thronging fast
Must devour itself at last.
Daily shining, even content,
Would with itself grow discontent;
And the sun's life witnesseth
Daily dying is not death.
So Love loved from day to day
Loves itself into decay.

II

Love to daily uses wed

CCLVIII

Absence, alas,
Causeth me pass
From all solace
To great grievance.

Yet though that I
Absent must be,
I trust that she
Hath remembrance.

Where I her find
Loving and kind,
There my poor mind
Eased shall be.
And for my part,
My love and heart
Shall not revert
Though I should die.

Beauty, pleasure,
Riches, treasure,
Or to endure
In prison strong
Shall not me make
Her to forsake
Though I should lack
Her never so long.

For once trust I,
Ere that I die,

between Ardelia and Ephelia Eph.

What Friendship is, Ardelia, show. Ard.
'Tis to love as I love you. Eph.
This account, so short (though kind)
Suits not my enquiring mind.
Therefore farther now repeat:
What is Friendship when complete? Ard.
'Tis to share all joy and grief;
'Tis to lend all due relief
From the tongue, the heart, the hand,
'Tis to mortgage house and land;
For a friend be sold a slave;
'Tis to die upon a grave
If a friend do therein lie. Eph.
This indeed, though carried high;

I.

How strongly does my Passion flow,
Divided equally 'twixt two?
Damon had ne'er subdu'd my Heart,
Had not Alexis took his part;
Nor cou'd Alexis pow'rful prove,
Without my Damons Aid, to gain my Love.

II.

When my Alexis present is,
Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;
But when Alexis I do miss,
Damon gains nothing but my Scorn.
But if it chance that both are by,
For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.

III.

Love is a green girl
Holding a rose
Alone in a garden
Where nobody goes.

Time is an old man
Everyone meets
On trolleys and ferries
And cobblestone streets.