I.

Had my Desire been less,
My Passion had been more;
'Twas but my Love's Excess,
Which took away its Pow'r;
As when our Rage, does too much Passion vent,
Our Passion makes our Vengeance impotent;

II.

'Twas not, your Want of Charms,
Nor yet my Want of Love,
Made me then, in your Arms,
My self a Craven prove;
My vain Assault, was but your Praise, my Shame,
My Weakness does your Beauty's Pow'r proclaim;

III.

Why cause my Trouble, yet forbid my Grief?
Since to cry out in Pain, is some Relief;
Blocks weep i'th' Fire, and heated Boards will groan,
Why give me Pain, and yet forbid my Moan?
Why me still in Love's Flames your Martyr keep?
And yet forbid me to complain, or weep;
Ev'n Oak, i'th' Fire, as stubborn as it is,
Will weep, will sigh, will flie, will groan, or hiss;
Why wou'd you have my Heart of Oak for you
Burn out, yet of Love's Flame no Sense to show;
Since Flames have Pow'r, by Virtue of their Heat,
To give some Sense to things Inanimate;

I.

All over, I'm in Love with thee,
As thou, all over, Lovely art,
No Part of thee, but pleases me,
Except thy proud, ungentle Heart;

II.

I can't say, 'tis thy Lip, or Eye,
Or this, or that peculiar Grace,
But I, for all together Die,
Which make up thy Dear Killing-Face;

III.

Your Beauty's Glory's evident,
Tho' where it is, we cannot say;
Thus, unseen Stars i'th'Element,

You did my Motion to be heard, forbid,
Yet me, for want of Moving, non-suited;
You say, by bold Claims you, like Heav'n, are lost,
That he who fears and trembles, merits most;
That you, as Heav'n, Men by Presumption lose,
You, your Blest, by their Self-denials chuse;
That they their Merit lose, of Faith and Love,
When they Love's Joys to be their Due wou'd prove;
As Beggars bold, who rather claim than sue,
Forfeit that Pity, which were else their Due;
Then I, since thee, not as my Right, I crave,
Shou'd thee sure, as my Right, in Justice have;

I.

Kind Opportunity's a Friend
To Lovers, tho' Time is a Foe;
The first, is like a Mistress, kind,
If that you do not let her go;
But Time, that Thief, away will take again,
What t'other for thee, did in haste, obtain:

II.

Then trust not Faithless Time, (my Dear,)
With Beauty, Love, or Happiness;
Since Time is a Discoverer,
He never to be trusted is;
Time, (whilst you have it then,) be sure improve,
And never trust a Run-away with Love:

By her talent a secret will Celia discover,
As the picture will speak — it will say that I love her .

I.

Love 's so pleasant a Pain,
Such a tickling dear Smart,
That it makes me complain,
When it eases my Heart:
To be more my Joy, wou'd it were more my Grief,
To make it, as more my Pain, more my Relief:

II.

For, its Troubles, or Cares,
But its Pleasures increase;
So that but for our Fears,
Our Joys in it were less;
Then more may my Troubles, Pains, Fears be, that so,
As they grow more, more may my Pleasures be too;

I.

The wan moon silvers with pale, sullen sheen
A rose-wreathed arbor near the sleepy Rhine,
Which, like a wounded snake of Damascene,
Trails its dull length through leagues of hops and vine.

A woman with cold, loveless eyes stands there,
Spurning, as would the shadows of the shores,
A gentle boy, with blonde and wind-loved hair,
Who at her haughty feet his soul outpours.

She turns her head a cold smile to conceal,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE, DECEMBER 25, 1871 .

When I met thee, gentle lady, in the days of long ago,
This world of ours was fairer than it seemeth now, I trow.
The meadow grass was greener, the sky a deeper blue,
The stars in the heaven were brighter — brighter every drop of dew;
The shining rills and rivers sung a softer melodie,
As they went, arrayed in diamonds, to their bridal with the sea.
The birds made sweeter singing midst the summer-scented leaves,
Richer gold and crimson curtains hung around the dying eves,

I.

How hard is the poor Woman's Fate,
Whether she soon, or late is won,
No Thanks deserves, if 'tis too late,
Nor Love, if that she yields too soon.

II.

By Man, forc'd to Hypocrisie,
Yet for it, by him, most condemn'd,
Hated, if Love she does deny,
And yet, for granting it, contemn'd,

III.

By him, with whom she soon complies,
Is thought, a coming Easie Whore,