love poems for her

LXXVIII

Since Love will needs that I shall love,
Of very force I must agree
And since no chance may it remove
In wealth and in adversity,
I shall alway myself apply
To serve and suffer patiently.

Though for goodwill I find but hate
And cruelty my life to waste
And though that still a wretched state
Should pine my days unto the last,
Yet I profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.

For since my heart is bound to serve
And I not ruler of mine own,

Since, Coridon, you have a hart can pay
So many sacrifices in a day,
And that you can one for her wit adore,
And then another for her beauty more,
I have no inclination to confine
Your general offering to a single shrine.
No, Coridon, I'le quit you of your vow,
You here or there may court, when, where, or how,
Your artful love your fancy shall perswade,
And when you've done, and many conquests made,
Back on your honor looke, and there you'le see,
A ruine greater than your victory.
It easy is our weak sex to betray,

Song

D APHNÈ

Shephard loveth thow me vell?

A MINTAS

So vel that I cannot tell.

D APHNÈ

Like to vhat, good shephard, say?

A MINTAS

Like to thee, faire cruell May.

D APHNÈ

Ah! how strange thy vords I find!
But yet satisfie my mind;

Set Love in order, thou that lovest Me.
Never was virtue out of order found;
And though I fill thy heart desirously,
By thine own virtue I must keep My ground:
When to My love thou dost bring charity,
Even she must come with order girt and gown'd.
Look how the trees are bound
To order, bearing fruit;
And by one thing compute,
In all things earthly, order's grace or gain.

All earthly things I had the making of
Were numbered and were measured then by Me;
And each was ordered to its end by Love,

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains fra thee, oh!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, oh!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh!

I
"O Time, whence comes the Mother's moody look amid her labours,
As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves?
Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors,
With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face,
As of angel fallen from grace?"
II

--"Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly:
In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves.
The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most queenly,

My God, my God, have mercy on my sin,
For it is great; and if I should begin
To tell it all, the day would be too small
To tell it in.

My God, Thou wilt have mercy on my sin
For Thy Love's sake: yea, if I should begin
To tell Thee all, the day would be too small
To tell it in.

Oh, says the linnet, if I sing,
My love forsook me in the spring,
And nevermore will I be seen
Without my satin gown of green.

Oh, says the pretty-feathered jay,
Now my love is fled away
For the memory of my dear
A feather of each sort I'll wear.

Oh, says the sparrow, my love is gone,
She so much that I doted on,
And e'er since for that selfsame thing
I've made a vow I ne'er will sing.

Oh, says the water-wag-my-tail,
I courted a fair one but could not prevail,

Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see,
For shape and service, Spaniell like to thee.
This shall my love doe, give thy sad death one
Teare, that deserves of me a million.

She is not dead, but sleepeth; —
Ere long will the morning break,
When those we love who sleep in Him,
Shall from the dust awake.

She is not dead, but sleepeth; —
Soon, soon will the ransomed sing
O! grave, where is thy victory?
O! death, where is thy sting?