Love follows not desert, but accident.
We love—because we love: I know no more.
'Tis not great thoughts, nor noble qualities,
Nor conduct pure compel it. These rather challenge
Our deep respect than Love: That sweet emotion
Owes to our tender hearts its gentle force.
And scorns all meaner reason.

In Love's garden next I stood
Mid the myrtle's green increase,
Where great roses red as blood
Dreamed their passion into peace.
From his mansion marvellous
Made of amorous apple-boughs, —
Whose soft slow blush-tinted showers
Knolled the noiseless-footed hours, —
Forth came Love, a shepherd lad,
Star-eyed, ruddy-limbed, unclad,
Bringing flower-wine of his valleys
In a sorrow-charming chalice,
Spiced with myrrh and magic root.
Straight I drank: the while his flute
Gurgling loosed my speechless grief,

What will Love not compel! Though Pudens murmured " No,"
Yet he did not prevent young Encolpos, and so
He cut off his hair, while his master wept sore
And complained, like Apollo and Phaethon of yore;
Than Hylas more fair or Achilles, when he
Rejoiced from his mother's love-locks to be free;
In return for the gift may he beardless remain,
And though his hair's short seem a boy once again.

That diamond, emerald, and sard
Adorn my Stella's hand,
That jaspers bright should deck the bard
I well can understand.

For as he set a lovely lay
With jewels bright and rare,
A few escaped, and these are they
That now his hand doth wear.

When native virtue, love of martial fame,
Were the rich trophies of each glorious name;
When noble daring bade perfidious France
Draw the keen blade, or " couch the quiv'ring lance; "
Then, how averse to foreign modes and arts,
Those treach'rous trifles that unman our hearts!
They scorn'd her motley manners with disdain,
And found, in Reason's scale, her fopp'ries vain:
Then each accomplish'd Dame resplendent shone
In charms unrivall'd, charms that were her own;
While the interior beauties of her mind,

In vain the youth his utmost art essay'd,
Persuasion mov'd not, nor soft pity sway'd;
But ere he went, his last respect to shew,
Seven Ermine skins, that rival'd Greenland's snow,
With five fair Swans, he as a tribute gave,
And Seals fresh bleeding from the briny wave,
With marble lamps, and oil of curious taste,
To deck her board, and crown the rich repast:
With joy resin'd, this gift the nymph receiv'd,
Sweet proof of love, from him in whom she liv'd;
Then, trembling, wish'd the parting pang was o'er,
While pitying sighs her love-lorn bosom tore.

Love , powerful love, impatient of controul,
Softens the heart, and animates the soul;
That love refin'd that can the magic boast
Of warmth unchang'd amidst eternal frost:
Witness, fair Ajutt, pride of icy plains,
Where darkness half the year triumphant reigns,
And faithful gen'rous Anningait, the youth,
By love taught softness, by that softness truth:
Both flourish'd sweet on Greenland's rigid coast,
Pure as its snow, and constant as its frost;
No polish'd arts of specious vice they knew,
The youth was noble, and the maid was true;

None takes such low security
Though he is poor. My praise is just.
For Cordus, tho' he cannot see,
Accepts his lady-love on trust.

Dear Quintus, why resent my joke?
The one-eyed hag of whom I spoke
Was Thais, and your lady's name
Hermione — 'tis not the same
Or similar. Had I said Thais,
Whereas your lady-love was Lais,
You might complain of that; beside
You swear your love is not one-eyed!
I called her lover " Quintus" — true:
Let's change to " Sextus" — will that do?

Do you design that verse of mine
Should bring repute to you,
Or did you deem by such a scheme
To be a poet too?

Well, I suppose, the pearly rows
'Twixt Aegle's lips that glow,
Though purchased bone, she calls her own,
And thinks them truly so.

Lycoris, too, of mulberry hue
Believes — delusion fond —
The powder puff is quite enough
To make a lovely blonde.

Must we regard you as a bard?
Why, then I will admit
Your head has shocks of lovely locks
Without a hair on it.