You are my song come true
That I sang unbelieving;
You are my hope made new
That I tarnished with grieving.

More than the losses of love
With which love denied me,
More than the shadows of love
With which love belied me,

Is the reward of this love
That now love has given —
All of the earth of love
And love's high heaven!

Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;
And yet I'll swear I can't tell how
The pleasing plague stole on me.

'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no Graces revel;
'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates
Have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for sure in that,
There's nothing more than common;
And all her sense is only chat,
Like any other woman.

Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm--
'Tis both perhaps, or neither;
In short, 'tis that provoking charm
Of Celia altogether.

Yes, I will love then, I will love,
I will not now Loves Rebel prove,
Though I was once his Enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the Combate him defy,
An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax I did wield.
Love in one hand his Bow did take,
In th'other hand a Dart did shake.
But yet in vain the Dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the Bow .
So well my Armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist.
But when I thought all danger past,
His Quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of Arrow , or of Dart ,

A yellow dot on her forehead,
While she lies asleep in the sun,
A black dot over her beating heart,
And my charm is done, is done.
Tonight she will slip to my tipi
With wondering, half-breathed sigh.
She will part the painted curtains,
I shall watch her with half-shut eye.
The sacred charm will bind her,
Yet she will never know why.
And then if she pleases me not
I can wash my charm away
And laugh when I see her hiding
From my mocking eyes all day.

Yea, gold is son of Zeus: no rust
Its timeless light can stain;
The worm that brings man's flesh to dust
Assaults its strength in vain:
More gold than gold the love I sing,
A hard, inviolable thing.

Men say the passions should grow old
With waning years; my heart
Is incorruptible as gold,
'Tis my immortal part:
Nor is there any god can lay
On love the finger of decay.

Wounded with loue, and piercing deep desire
Of your faire face, I left my natiue land,
With Russia snow to slacke mine English fire,
But well I see, no cold can quench the brand
That Cupides coles enkindle in the brest,
Frost hath no force where friendship is possest.
The Ocean sea for all his fearefull flood,
The perils great of passage not preuaile,
To banish loue the riuers do no good,
The mountains hie cause Cupid not to quaile,
Wight are his wings, and fansie flies as fast
As any ship, for all his sailes and mast.

Within the covert of a shady grove
We saw the little red-cheek'd god of Love:
He had nor bow nor quiver: these among
The neighboring trees upon a bow were hung.
Upon a bank of tender rosebuds laid,
He smiling slept; bees with their noise invade
His rest, and on his lips their honey made.

"The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave she was lain.

"I'll do as much for my true love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth, and a day."

The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak,
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"

" 'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave
And will not let you sleep,
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips
And that is all I seek."

Why from the danger did mine eyes not start, —
Why not become even blind, — ere through my sight
Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
To say: " Dost thou not hear me in thy heart?"
New torment then, the old torment's counterpart,
Filled me at once with such a sore affright,
That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite
Mine eyes and me! O help us where thou art!
Thou hast so left mine eyes, that Love is fain —
Even Love himself — with pity uncontroll'd
To bend above them, weeping for their loss:

Why do we love these things which we call women,
Which are like feathers blown with every wind,
Regarding least those which do most esteem them,
And most deceitful when they seem most kind;
And all the virtue that their beauty graces,
It is but painted like unto their faces?

Their greatest glory is in rich attire,
Which is extracted from some hopeful livers
Whose wits and wealth are bent to their desire,
When they regard the gift more than the givers;
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,