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So much thyself does in me live,
That, when it for thyself I give, "Tis but to change that piece of gold for this,
Whose stamp and value equal is ;
And, that full weight too may be had,
THE LONG LIFE. LOVE from Time's wings hath stolen the feathers,
He has, and put them to his own; [sure For hours of late as long as days endure, And very
minutes hours are grown. The various motions of the turning year
Belong not now at all to me:
Each winter's day St. Barnaby.
To look into a glass I fear;
Grey hairs and wrinkles there.
Why does hard Fate to us restore?
What the Flood wash'd away before?
O’ the shortness of the days of man:
To the ordinary span.
And then 'twill be too short for me.
Gently, ah gently, madam, touch
The wound which you yourself have made;
(For counsel yet will do no good) Till time, and rest, and Heaven, allay
The violent burnings of my blood; For what effect from this can flow, To chide men drunk, for being so ? Perhaps the physic's good you give,
But ne'er to me can useful prove ; Medicines may cure, but not revive ;
And I'm not sick, but dead in love; In Love's hell, not his world, am I; At once I live, am dead, and die. What new-found rhetoric is thine ?
Even thy dissuasions me persuade,
When thy commands are disobey'd.
Against thine eyes to assist my heart;
For straight the traitor took their part ;
The act, I must confess, was wise
As a dishonest act could be:
Would be too strong for that and me;
RESOLVED TO BE BELOVED. 'Tis true, l'ave loved already three or four,
And shall three or four hundred more ;
I'll love each fair-one that I see,
my Canaan be, the fatal soil That ends my wanderings and my toil:
I'll settle there, and happy grow;
Till it the northern point find out;
But constant then and fix'd does prove, Fix'd, that his dearest pole as soon may move. Then may my vessel torn and shipwreck'd be,
If it put forth again to sea !
It never more abroad shall roam, Though 't could next voyage bring the Indies home. But I must sweat in love, and labour yet,
Till I a competency get;
They're slothful fools who leave a trade,
Love does to us fit,
For Heaven's sake, what d' you mean to do?
The little time that Love does choose;
whilst yet ’tis day; Lest I, faint and benighted, lose my way.
'Tis dismal, one so long to love
Too weary to take others be:
And waste our army thus in vain,
At several hopes wisely to fly, Ought not to be esteem'd inconstancy; 'Tis more inconstant always to pursue A thing that always fies from you;
; For that at last may meet a bound,
But no end can to this be found, 'Tis nought but a perpetual fruitless round.
When it does hardness meet, and pride,
It lodges there, and stays in it.
heaven may truly be, I shall be sure to give't eternity.
To be beloved by me?
The Gods may give their altars o'er;
The humble furzes of the plain.
She being so high, and I so low, Her power by this does greater show, Who at such a distance gives so sure a blow. Compared with her, all things so worthless prove, That nought on earth can towards her move,
Till 't be exalted by her love.
Equal to her, alas! there's none;
He deserves her less than I;
For he would cheat for his relief; And one would give, with lesser grief, To' an undeserving beggar than a thief.
AGAINST FRUITION. No; thou'rt a fool, I'll swear, if e'er thou grant: Much of my veneration thou must want, When once thy kindness puts my ignorance out; For a learn'd age is always least devout.