CCXIV. WOMAN'S LOVE. THE SHADOWS OF US MEN. FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you; At morn and even, shades are longest ; Styled but the shadows of us men? Ben Jonson. CCXV. LOVE'S DOUBTS AND FEARS. Ask me why I send you here This firstling of the infant year; This primrose all bepearled with dew; Ask me why this flower doth show What doubts and fears are in a lover. CCXVI. A FALSE LOVE. FALSE though she be to me and love, For still the charmer I approve, In hours of bliss we oft have met, William Congreve. CCXVII. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE. WHEN the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies deadWhen the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render 4 No song when the spirit is mute- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Percy Bysshe Shelley. CCXVIII. NO LOVE, NO SPRING. UNLESS with my Amanda blest, In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast, In vain I rear the breathing flower. Awakened by the genial year, In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear: Without my love there is no Spring. James Thomson. CCXIX. AGAINST RIVALRY IN LOVE. Of all the torments, all the cares, By partners of each other kind, In love alone we hate to find Sylvia, for all the pangs you see William Walsh. CCXX. LOVE'S COMPLAINT. THE LUTE'S LAST LABOUR. My lute, awake! perform the last And end that I have now begun; As to be heard where ear is none, My song may pierce her heart as soon: The rocks do not so cruelly Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Planning in vain unto the moon, Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: And wish and want as I have done. CCXXI. Sir Thomas Wyatt. LOVE'S COMPLAINT. A HEART OF STONE. WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose; |