If Love had lost his shafts, and Jove down threw
His thunder-bolts, or spent his forked fire,
They only might recovered be anew
From out my heart, cross-wounded with desire.
Or if debate by Mars were lost a space,
It might be found within the self-same place.

If Neptune's waves were all dried up and gone,
My weeping eyes so many tears distill,
That greater seas might grow by them alone:
Or if no flame were yet remaining still
In Vulcan's forge, he might from out my breast
Make choice of such as should befit him best.

Love took his seal and in thy breast
The image of me there impressed,
I in my heart thy picture have
Which that same artist did engrave.
Pluto below, the Sun above,
Shall see the witness of my love,
And never, never did I fear
That thou my likeness forth would tear.
So when we to death's judgment come
Thou must endure the traitor's doom.

Yesterday I sat between
Kate and Flo;
Flo loves me and I love Kate,
I was in a pretty state:
What was I to do?

Florence quick to me did lean,
Kissed me so:
Jealous of my other dear,
She will tell on us, I fear.
What then could I do?

I was feeling rather mean,
Longed to go;
Turned to Kitty like a thief,
Snatched one kiss—'twas all too brief—
That I had to do.

But I'm sure there'll be a scene
'Twixt the two;
Kisses into trouble lead,
Whether given or received.
What am I to do?

How can my love in equity be blamed,
Still to importune, though it ne'er obtain,
Since though her face and voice will me refrain,
Yet by her voice and face I am inflamed?
For when, alas! her face with frowns is framed,
To kill my love, but to revive my pain;
And when her voice commands, but all in vain,
That love both leave to be, and to be named:
Her siren voice doth such enchantment move,
And though she frown, ev'n frowns so lovely make her,
That I of force am forced still to love.
Since then I must, and yet cannot forsake her,

If once a man has bitten been,
Mad dogs, they say, by him are seen
Wherever waters flow;
And so perchance Love's frenzied bite
Has robbed me of my senses quite
And I bewildered go.
The babbling brook, the foaming sea,
The wine cup, each reflects but thee.

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated,
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared mine anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet doth she still procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

Why blame the pranks that love does ever play?
What though my eyes be wet, my temples gray?
These cares are but the signs of passion's fire,
Of sleepless nights and unfulfilled desire,
Only the flame within me freshly burns,
All else to age and feebleness returns.
Yet though my sides are wrinkled in their prime,
My neck all loose and slack before its time,
If thou, dear heart, to love me now will deign
I shall grow young, my hair turn black again.

Let not, sweet saint! let not these lines offend you;
Nor yet the message that these lines impart:
The message my unfeigned love doth send you,
Love, which yourself hath planted in my heart.
For being charmed by the bewitching art
Of those inveigling graces which attend you,
Love's holy fire makes me breathe out in part
The never-dying flames my breast doth lend you.
Then if my lines offend, let Love be blamed;
And if my love displease, accuse mine eyes:
If mine eyes sin, their sin's cause only lies

If Love should faint, and half decline
Below the fit meridian sign,
And shorn of all his golden dress,
His royal state and loveliness,
Be no more worth a heart like thine,
Let not thy nobler passion pine,
But, with a charity divine,
Let Memory ply her soft address
If Love should faint;
And oh! this laggard heart of mine,
Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine,
Shall ache in pity's dear distress,
Until the balms of thy caress
To work the finished cure combine,
If Love should faint.

A BALLAD,

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA .

When many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flowed her coal-black hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast:—
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er