PROLOGUE

When first our poet set himself to write,
Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smackings of an after-kiss.
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his want:
Each writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant;

Celimena, of my heart
None shall e'er bereave you,
If with your good leave I may
Quarrel with you once a day,
I will never leave you.

c:Passion's but an empty name
Where respect is wanting:
Damon, you mistake your aim;
Hang your heart, and burn your flame,
If you must be ranting.

d:Love as dull and muddy is
As decaying liquor:
Anger sets it on the lees,
And refines it by degrees,
Till it works it quicker.

c:Love by quarrels to beget
Wisely you endeavor,
With a grave physician's wit,

My love, like the vast majority,
knows nothing about poetry
With my poor poems she does
simply incredible things:
she irons them, darns them, fries them,
she even beats them out with a broom
My love, like the vast majority,
lives touching poetry.

When maidens are young, and in their spring,
Of pleasure, of pleasure, let 'mdash take their full swing,
——Full swing, full swing,
And love, and dance, and play, and sing.
For Silvia, believe it, when youth is done,
There 's nought but hum-drum, hum-drum, hum-drum,
There 's nought but hum-drum, hum-drum, hum-drum.

Then Silvia be wise, be wise, be wise,
The painting and dressing for a while are supplies,
——And may surprise—
But when the fire 's going out in your eyes,
It twinkles, it twinkles, it twinkles, and dies,

A curse upon that faithless maid,
Who first her sex's liberty betrayed;
Born free as man to love and range,
Till nobler nature did to custom change.
Custom, that dull excuse for fools.
Who think all virtue to consist in rules.

From love our fetters never sprung,
That smiling god, all wanton, gay and young.
Shows by his wings he cannot be
Confined to a restless slavery;
But here and there at random roves,
Not fixed to glitt'ring courts or shady groves.

Then she that constancy professed,
Was but a well dissembler at the best;

All joy to mortals, joy and mirth
Eternal Io's sing;
The gods of love descend to earth,
Their darts have lost the sting.
The youth shall now complain no more
On Sylvia's needless scorn,
But she shall love, if he adore,
And melt when he shall burn.

The nymph no longer shall be shy,
But leave the jilting road;
And Daphne now no more shall fly
The wounded panting God;
But all shall be serene and fair,
No sad complaints of love
Shall fill the gentle whispering air,
No echoing sighs the grove.

The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men, Morris and Hamish.

HAMISH . Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.
MORRIS . I'm wondering about Love.
HAMISH . Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?
MORRIS . I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.
HAMISH . They're a simple folk:
I'm one.
MORRIS . It's you I'm mainly thinking of.
HAMISH . Why, that's an honour, surely.
MORRIS . Now if I loved

What shall we do for Love these days?
How shall we make an altar-blaze
To smite the horny eyes of men
With the renown of our Heaven,
And to the unbelievers prove
Our service to our dear god, Love?
What torches shall we lift above
The crowd that pushes through the mire,
To amaze the dark heads with strange fire?
I should think I were much to blame,
If never I held some fragrant flame
Above the noises of the world,
And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares,
Worshipped before the sacred fears
That are like flashing curtains furled

We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As thou, Love, were the deep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:

But burn'd not through us thy imagining
Like fierce mood in a song caught,
We were as clamour'd words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.

For what more like the brainless speech of a fool, —
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?

Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth

Ad amicam, a cuius amore discedere non potest

Long have I borne much, mad thy faults me make:
Dishonest love, my wearied breast forsake!
Now have I freed myself, and fled the chain,
And what I have borne, shame to bear again.
We vanquish, and tread tamed Love under feet,
Victorious wreaths at length my temples greet.
Suffer, and harden: good grows by this grief,
Oft bitter juice brings to the sick relief.
I have sustained so oft thrust from the door,
To lay my body on the hard moist floor.
I know not whom thou lewdly didst embrace,