love poem

ATHOS .

Thy mind was fit for prehistoric time,
When man was perfect, ere the birth of guile;
I love the gentle glamour of thy smile;
I love thy heart beyond all taint or crime.

No passion base e'er touched thee with its slime;
In thee dwelt radiant honor and no wile;
And not a thought ignoble could defile
Thy soul, that ever higher seemed to climb!

I.

Since , by the Fair Sex, Men are priz'd,
Not for their Wit's, but Money's Store,
And Wits, for Want of Coin, despis'd;
'Tis Nonsense to Love, and be Poor;

II.

Since Noble, Wise, Good, Rich Men are,
By Women thought, for Money's Store,
And Love can, but by Gifts, appear;
'Tis Miserable to be Poor;

III.

Since my Saint, but with Offerings,

Thy Beauty, which invited first my Love,
And me to taste the Joys of yours did move,
Did first both's Fatal Disappointment prove;
Thy sudden, unexpected Meeting me,
Made me to fail (in what thou met'st for) thee,
More backward, for thy Forwardness, to be;
Thy Beauty, which first rais'd my Passion so,
Its own Delay did make my Passion grow;
At once its Cause, and its Impediment,
And made my Love its own Desire prevent;
The Cause then of my Love, is now its Blame,
My Love, since not my Sin, is more my Shame;

I.

O tell me Chloris! prithee tell,
(Since sure you can) the Reason why?
The best-stor'd Beauties Love shou'd sell
Most dear, and Poor Men dearest buy?
That Women shou'd Injustice do,
Before they love, and after too?

II.

You Fair in Looks, not Actions are,
From Men exacting Pay and Pains;
Since Woman has a double Share
Of Pleasure, she shou'd have less Gains;
Not from her Labourer require,
The more he does for her, more Hire;

III.

If you pretend your self undone,

I.

Phillis! pray give me now your Heart,
Or mine to me now back again resign;
If you with yours will never part,
It is but just, I shou'd again have mine;

II.

Be more kind, or be more severe,
Your Coldness and Indifference I hate,
My living still 'twixt Hope and Fear;
An Open Foe's less hurtful than a Cheat;

III.

And Doubt is the worst sort of State,
Impatient, faithful Lovers can endure;
When once we know but our Love's Fate,
Our very Pain does Ease for us procure;

IV.

FRANCE .

Your joyous youth, when heedless of a crown,
Passed amid laughing damosels and flowers,
Awed in grim Plessis, free in Touraine's bowers,
Loving to love, dreading a tyrant's frown!

Man of most nervous beauty and renown,
You knew the torture of eventless hours,
When, from the gloom of Bourge's antique towers,
You, desolate, gazed upon the dismal town.

I.

You , by my Eyes swore Faith to me,
By which, your Perjuries I find,
Which, (since thy were sworn by, by thee)
By Love or thee, are stricken Blind;
The Breach of Faith so you commit,
Yet I must punish'd be for it;

II.

In Love, as Trade, Joint-Partners so,
Must suffer for the Fault of one;
And th' Innocent must undergo
The Damage, by the Guilty done;
Whilst the False Partner's Breach of Trust,

FRANCE .

Improvident king that failed to make a mark,
Poor moth that fluttered in the Saxon light,
Heedless of armored foes that burn and smite,
To Honor's voice thy dull ear would not hark!

The valorous deeds of leal Joan of Arc
Rouse not thy dormant energy to the fight;
The star of France swoons in the sullen night,
Chivalry sleeps, and the dire future's dark!

By Wine, that common Cordial for all Grief,
In vain I seek, for Love or Care, Relief;
Drowning my Sense, can't my Desires, or Cares,
Nor stupefie my Troubles, Pains, or Fears;
I spoil the Strength of my Wine, with my Tears;
It turns, by my soure Humour, Vinegar,
And, from my Sighs for Love, takes too much Air;
Till Dead, and not Reviving, 'tis to me,
Me, from my Spleen's Oppression, cannot free;
Nor raise my Joy, my Trouble stupefie,
For Love, Care, Grief, cansbe no Remedy,
Nor with new Healths, wash from my Memory;

That of my Love, you found so small Effect,
Ne'r think, 'twas want of True Love, or Respect,
'Twas more my Value for you, than Neglect;
Which rather shou'd, prove my Love to thee more,
As I, to prove it to thee, had less Pow'r;
Since Love, like Rage, when it is in Excess,
But, as 'tis more, can prove itself the less;
'Tis Mettle makes the Furious Courser fall,
Who, for his Speed, comes later to the Goal;
Whose Haste, is but his Speed's Impediment,
Till that, which shou'd most forward his Intent,