For love no time has she, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this she listens to each fop that's near,
Th' embroidered colonel flatters with a sneer,
And the cropped ensign nuzzles in her ear.
But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire
Th' ambtious bosom of the landed Squire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms
For withered lean Right Honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine,
Which she returns with insolence and scorn,

1.

 N OW sure, within this twelve month past,
I'have lov'd at least some twenty years or more:
 The account of Love runs much more fast
 Than that, with which our Life does score:
So though my Life be short , yet I may prove
 The great Methusalem of Love .

2.

 Not that Loves Hours or Minutes are
Shorter than those our Being 's measur'ed by:
 But they're more close compacted far,
 And so in lesser room do lye.
Thin airy things extend themselves in space,
 Things solid take up little place.

3.

Now by my Love , the greatest Oath that is,
 None loves you half as well as I:
 I do not ask your Love for this;
But for Heave'ns sake believe me , or I dye
 No Servant e're but did deserve
His Master should believe that he does serve;
And I'll ask no more wages , though I starve .

'Tis no luxurious Diet this, and sure
 I shall not by't too Lusty prove;
 Yet shall it willingly endure,
If't can but keep together Life and Love .
 Being your Priso'ner and your slave ,
I do not Feasts and Banquets look to have,

thisbe: Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak! Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone.
Lovers, make moan!
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word!
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue!
[Stabs herself.]

I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

CANTO I .

Stay your rude steps, or e'er your feet invade
The Muses' haunts, ye Sons of War and Trade!
Nor you, ye Legion Fiends of Church and Law,
Pollute these pages with unhallow'd paw!
Debased, corrupted, groveling, and confined,
No D EFINITIONS touch your senseless mind;
To you no P OSTULATES prefer their claim,
No ardent A XIOMS your dull souls inflame:
For you , no T ANGENTS touch, no A NGLES meet,
No C IRCLES join in osculation sweet!

 For me , ye C ISSOIDS , round my temples bend

All who have loved, be sure of this from me,
That to have touched one little ripple free
Of golden hair, or held a little hand
Very long since, is better than to stand
Rolled up in vestures stiff with golden thread,
Upon a throne o'er many a bowing head
Of adulators; yea, and to have seen
Thy lady walking in a garden green,
'Mid apple blossoms and green twisted boughs,
Along the golden gravel path, to house
Herself, where thou art watching far below,
Deep in thy bower impervious, even though
Thou never give her kisses after that,

The thorn-tree keeps its leaves for ever green
All the year round; and when the wind blows keen,
And strips all trees the summer's pride and chief,
This holdeth fast, and will not quit one leaf.
Likewise when Christ had worn the thorny crown,
That year the sorry thorn-tree trickled down
With drops of blood, and ever since hath worn
Those bleeding berries in its leaves of thorn
Wherefore all doleful lovers prize that tree,
Both for its sorrow and its constancy;
And all they say that it is good to wear

LXXXIII

A DAY IN SUSSEX

The dove did lend me wings. I fled away
From the loud world which long had troubled me.
Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May
Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn tree.
I left the dusty high road, and my way
Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.
A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay
From every hedge and every thicket there.
Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass
All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve.

LIV

HE DESIRES THE IMPOSSIBLE

I F it were possible the fierce sun should,
Standing in heaven unloved, companionless,
Enshrined be in some white-bosomed cloud,
And so forget his rage and loneliness;
If it were possible the bitter seas
Should suddenly grow sweet, till at their brink
Birds with bright eyes should stoop athirst and drink;
— If these were possible; and if to these
It should be proved that love has sometimes been
'Twixt lambs and leopards, doves and hawks, that snow