Whilst foming Steed I spurre unto the quicke,
To make him gallop to my Love amaine,
Love doth my thoughts (through fancy) forward prick,
The end of wished journey mine to gaine:
But light's his hurt, tis but a little smart;
Where mine is mortall, sounding to the hart.
Run then (my Gelding swift) like Pegasus ,
Flie hence with wings, for wings hath my desire;
Both of us (forst amaine) are forward thus,
And kindled in us is a burning fire:
Thou through two spurres in flanke provokd art sore,
But thousands inwardly my hart doo gore,

Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble court of kings.

Then come--thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia tree,

THE BLACK KNIGHT AND WAMBA

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.

Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,
'T is time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

WAMBA

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit;

Steer, hither steer, your winged pines,
All beaten mariners,
Here lie Love's undiscovered mines,
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves, our panting breasts
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be a while our guests:
For stars, gaze on our eyes.
The compass love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

The gem-like stars
Through fleecy bars
Send down their ambient light;
'Tis Splendor's reign,
Before her fane,
Each suppliant kneels to-night.

The tryst is o'er,
Yet what a store
Of love the maid doth hold.
The gift is fair
As moon-kissed air,
And bright as burnished gold.

Down in the dell,
A rose-gleam fell
From azure aisles of space;
There with light tread
A maiden sped,
Sweet yearning in her face.

Amid the sheen,
The lark, I ween,
Trilled love-lays to his mate;

I just came by the prison-door,
I gave a penny to the poor:
Papa did this good act approve,
And poor Mamma cried out for love.

Whene'er the poor comes to my gate,
Relief I will communicate;
And tell my Sire his sons shall be
As charitably great as he.

In what torn ship soever I embark,
That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark;
What sea soever swallow me, that flood
Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood;
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face; yet through that mask I know those eyes,
Which, though they turn away sometimes,
They never will despise.

I sacrifice this Island unto thee,
And all whom I loved there, and who loved me;
When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me,
Put thou thy sea betwixt my sins and thee.
As the tree's sap doth seek the root below

Eyes, hide my love, and do not show
To any but to her my notes,
Who only doth that cipher know,
Wherewith we pass our secret thoughts;
Belie your looks in others' sight;
And wrong yourselves to do her right.

Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,