love poem

How many of thy Captives (Love) complaine
Thou yoak'st thy slaves in too severe a chaine?
I 'have heard 'em their Poetique malice shew,
To curse thy Quiver, and blaspheme thy bow.
Calling thee boy, and blind; threatning the rod;
Prophanely swearing that thou art no God.
Or if thou be; not from the starry place;
But born below, and of the Stygian race.
But yet these Atheists that thy shafts dislike,
Thou canst be freindly to, and daigne to strike.
This on his Cloris spends his thoughts and time;

Eros, pity my entreating Muse and lull my sleepless yearning for Heliodorus. Now by your bow! your bow which does not harm others, but scatters winged arrows against me — if you kill me I will have these words written on my tomb:
" Friend, see the blood-guiltiness of Eros! "

Delay ? Alas there cannot be
To Love a greater Tyrannie:
Those cruel Beauties that have slain
Their Votaries by their disdain,
Or studied torments, sharp and witty,
Will be recorded for their pitty,
And after-ages be misled
To think them kind, when this is spred.
Of deaths the speediest is despair,
Delayes the slowest tortures are;
Thy cruelty at once destroyes,
But Expectation starves my Joyes.
Time and Delay , may bring me past
The power of Love to cure, at last;

O locust, beguiler of my desires, giver of sleep, Muse of the corn-lands with shrill-sounding wings, nature's mimic of the lyre, sing for me some well-loved song, O locust, beating your strident wings with your legs, to deliver me from the pains of sleepless thought, O locust, singer of the music which soothes love!
In the morning I will give you a fresh leek and drops of dew which you shall drink from my lips.

Ever the echo of Love sounds in my ears; in silence my eye sheds a tear to Desire; neither night nor day assuages me. Already through love-spells an impress is marked on my heart.
O winged Loves, do you know so well how to fly to me and yet not how to fly away?

SHAR Q I

To whom that wine-red ruby's shown
Is captive by those locks o'erthrown;
'Tis meet like nightingale I moan:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.

Unmatched yon maid with waist so spare,
Unrivaled too her wanton air;
Her ways than e'en herself more fair:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.

The roses like her cheeks are few;
That rose — blush-pink its darling hue;
This summer ere the roses blew,

The thrushes throng the grove —
O golden notes,
Drenched with desire and love
From fairy throats!

How jocund are the field
And meadow greening!
What whisper has revealed
The warm wind's meaning?

A lark aloft outfloods
His chant afar,
As above sombre woods
A courier star.

The sun, the spring are here
And May's green dance.
The dreaming days appear
Of old romance.

Ah spring, ah May, in sooth
How throbs this hour!
How earth renews her youth!

O hair of Timo, O sandal of Heliodora, O myrrh-breathing mouth of Demarion, O voluptuous laugh of ox-eyed Anticleia, O new-flowered coronals of Dorothea!
Your quiver, Love, conceals no more winged shafts — all your arrows are in me!

Say to Laecenis, Dorcas: " See how she who feigned Love is discovered! Time reveals false love. "

L OVE'S S ONG

Sweet were those moments when the heart was gay,
And the soul's realm, the court of joy's array:
Thoughts of those times now o'er my spirit stray,
For love of God! O Heavens! mercy! pray!
The pride of both the day and night was I.

A garden fair was that my soul's repose;
Like those in Eden's bower, its every rose;
But parting comes and all of that o'erthrows,
Now in my heart nought but its mem'ry glows.