THE MESSAGE

SEND home my long stray'd eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee; Yet since there they have learn'd such ill, Such forced fashions,

And false passions,

That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home

my

harmless heart again,

Which no unworthy thought could stain ;

But if it be taught by thine

To make jestings

Of protestings,

And break both

Word and oath,

Keep it, for then 't is none of mine.

Yet send me back my

heart and eyes,

That I may know and see thy lies,

And may laugh and joy, when thou

Art in anguish

And dost languish

For some one

That will none,

Or prove as false as thou art now.

LOVE'S DIET

To what a cumbersome unwieldiness

And burdenous corpulence my love had grown,
But that I did, to make it less,

And keep it in proportiön,

Give it a diet, made it feed upon

That which love worst endures, discretiön.

Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not,

Of which

my fortune, and faults had part;

my

And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she-sigh from my mistress' heart,

And thought to feast on that, I let him see
'T was neither very sound, nor meant to me.

If he wrung

from me a tear, I brined it so

With scorn or shame, that him it nourish'd not;

If he suck'd hers, I let him know

'T was not a tear which he had got;

His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;

For

eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.

Whatever he would dictate I writ that,

But burnt her letters when she writ to me ;

And if that favour made him fat,
I said, "If any title be

Convey'd by this, ah! what doth it avail,
To be the fortieth name in an entail?"

Thus I reclaim'd my buzzard5 love, to flie

At what, and when, and how, and where I choose. Now negligent of sports I lie,

And now, as other falconers use,

I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep; And the game kill'd, or lost, go talk or sleep.

LOVE'S DEITY

I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,

I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it ;

But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit

Actives to passives. Correspondency

Only his subject was; it cannot be

But

Love, till I love her who loves me.

every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the god of love.
O! were we waken'd by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be

I should love her who loves not me.