No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.
THOMAS MOORE.

CXV

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powers to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downward fall in dead of night;

For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

THOMAS CAREW.

CXVI

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spy'd,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired,

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee,—

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

CXVII

DALLYING

EDMUND WALLER.

DEAR love, I have not ask'd you yet;

Nor heard you, murmuring low

As wood-doves by a rivulet,

Say if it shall be so.

The colour on your cheek which plays,
Like an imprisoned bliss,

In its unworded language, says,
"Speak, and I'll answer 'Yes.'”

See, pluck this flower of wood-sorrel,
And twine it in your hair;

Its woodland grace becomes you well,
And makes my rose more fair.

Oft you sit 'mid the daisies here,
And I lie at your feet;

Yet day by day goes by ;-I fear
To break a trance so sweet.

As some first autumn tint looks strange,
And wakes a strange regret,

Would your soft ". yes our loving change?— Love, I'll not ask you yet.

THOMAS ASHE.

CXVIII

PHYLLIS, for shame, let us improve

A thousand different ways

Those few short moments snatch'd by love
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise

The censure of the grave,

Though love's a tyrant in your eyes,

Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,

Nor can it e'er submit

To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,

Who daily counsel me Fame and ambition to pursue, And leave off loving thee.

But when the least regard I show
To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow

As miserably wise.

CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL of Dorset

CXIX

TAKE, O take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn : But my kisses bring again,

Bring again,

Seals of love, but sealed in vain,

Sealed in vain.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CXX

I PRYTHEE send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie;

To find it were in vain,

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
Oh Love! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart

As much as she has mine.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

CXXI

KISSING USURY

BIANCHA, let
Me pay the debt

I owe thee for a kiss

Thou lend'st to me;

And I to thee

Will render ten for this.

If thou wilt say
Ten will not pay