My Lord my Life, can Envy ever bee
A Golden Vertue? Then would God I were
Top full thereof untill it colours mee
With yellow streaks for thy Deare sake most Deare,
Till I be Envious made by't at myselfe,
As scarcely loving thee my Life, my Health.

Oh! what strange Charm encrampt my Heart with spite
Making my Love gleame out upon a Toy?
Lay, out Cart-Loads of Love upon a mite?
Scarce lay a mite of Love on thee, my Joy?
Oh, Lovely thou! Shalt not thou loved bee?
Shall I ashame thee thus? Oh! shame for mee!

This Quest rapt at my Eares broad golden Doores
Who's this that comes from Edom in this shine
In Died Robes from Bozrah? this more ore
All Glorious in's Apparrell; all Divine?
Then through that Wicket rusht this buss there gave,
Its I that right do speake mighty to save.

I threw through Zions Lattice then an Eye
Which spide one like a lump of Glory pure
Nay, Cloaths of gold button'd with pearls do ly
Like Rags, or shooclouts unto his he wore.
Heavens Curtains blancht with Sun, and Starrs of Light
Are black as sackcloath to his Garments bright.

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see
Infinity and Finity Conjoyn'd?
What! hath thy Godhead, as not satisfi'de,
Marri'de our Manhood, making it its Bride?

Oh, Matchless Love! Filling Heaven to the brim!
O'rerunning it: all running o're beside
This World! Nay, Overflowing Hell, wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.

I BRAND

Thou trod'st the shifting sand path where man's race is.
The print of thy soft sandals is still clear.
I too have trodden it those prints a-near,
But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces.
And all that thou hast healed and holpen here
I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear
Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces.
I had no twelve to follow my pure paces.
For I had thy misgivings and thy fear,
Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering's sharp spear,
Thy hopes, thy longings — only not thy dear

Let those love now, who never lov'd before,
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

The Spring , the new, the warb'ling Spring appears,
The youthful Season of reviving Years;
In Spring the Loves enkindle mutual Heats,
The feather'd Nation chuse their tuneful Mates,
The Trees grow fruitful with descending Rain
And drest in diff'ring Greens adorn the Plain.
She comes; to morrow Beauty's Empress roves
Thro' Walks that winding run within the Groves;
She twines the shooting Myrtle into Bow'rs,

Amaze then tooke him,
Impudence, and Shame
Made Earthquakes in him,
with their Frost and Flame:
His Heart betwixt them tost,
till Reverence
Tooke all these Prisoners in him:
and from thence
Her matchless beauty,
with astonishment
Increast his bands:
till Aguish Love, that lent
Shame, and Observance,
licenc'st their remove;
And wisely liking
Impudence in Love:
Silent he went,
and stood against the Maide,
And in side glances
faintly he convaide
His crafty eyes about her;
with dumbe showes

III.

Full many loves and friendships dear
Have blossomed brightly in my path;
And some were like the primrose rathe,
And withered with the vernal year.

And some were like the joyous rose,
Most prodigal with scent and hue,
That glows while yet the sky is blue,
And falls with every wind that blows —

Mere guests and annuals of the heart;
But you are that perennial bay,

" I saw you, Love, from the sheepfield that is white
With mushrooms and you like an apple bough
Blossoming by the stonewall in the bright
Early sunshine."
" It is misting now."

" The rainy seawind's gone. It will be fine.
Look! there's not any cloud but on the brow
Of Beann Gulbain. They'll climb there to-day,
And search the ancient forest of black pine
Where the night is mildewed, for the dead
Body — "
" O you are wet!"
— " The stepping-stones
In the river were slippery — They say

Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings
All desired and timely things.
All whom morning sends to roam,
Hesper loves to lead them home.
Home return who him behold,
Child to mother, sheep to fold,
Bird to nest from wandering wide:
Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.

O! Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart;
Why thy old faithfull Souldier wilt thou see
Opprest in thine own Tents? They Murder me:
Thy flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy Friends,
Rather on Foes pursue more Noble ends.
Achilles Sword wou'd generously bestow
A cure as certaine, as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o're
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.
Wee thy owne Slaves feele thy Tyrannick blows,
While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy Foes.