" Oh, why do ye stand so still, lad,
In yon strange cloak of green?
And why have ye shut with a will, lad,
Them eyes as were once so keen? "

" There's a grumble of guns on the hill, lass;
But under it, where I lie,
The ground of my grave is still, lass;
And stiller beneath am I. "

" Ah, ye do well to be still, lad,
For weary your days have been,
With grumble o' guns on the hill, lad;
But why have ye got on green? "

" In the country where I have been, lass,
All blotted with blood and clay,

Love, like Original Sin, in all does dwell,
Fools sighs in private, and the Witty tell;
Boast they'r fond Passions in repeated Rhymes,
That other Reigning Mischief of the Times:
The Learn'd asham'd to own their Amorous Pain,
Vent the warm Raptures in a Pious strain,
Sigh, Languish, Die, (tho' for a Mortal fair,)
In Lays Divine, like Quarles and Arwaker .

In vain alas ye search your artless Books,
A lover's Fates writ in his Mistris's Looks;
Tis to no purpose that ye gaze ith' Skys,
There are no Stars like her propitious Eyes.
When Hearts are lost to set a Figure vain,
None but the Thief knows if you'll hav't again.
Your Venus ask, not Mercury 's Aid intreat,
For he knows nothing of an amorous Cheat:
'Tis she alone that can the Mystery tell,
Read but her Looks they are infallible;
Consult the upper World for Death and Wars,
She is Love's Heaven, her Eyes the only Stars:

Iff this be love, to fyxe the Eyes onn grownde
To fetch deepe sighes, and softely make my mone
To sheedd not bloode yett have a mortall wounde
To take delighte to muse and walke alone
To burne in flames, yet nott Consume by fyre
Yf this be love, such love desarves his hyre

To feele a harme conceald from whence itt growes
To lyke in harte, yett feare to shewe the same
To seeke releefe from whence I reape my woes
To cloake my inwarde greyfe with outewarde game
To fayne dislik yett languyshe in Desyre

Sonnett

Nott the disdaynes of her prowde youthly mynde
which laughes at love, and scornes to tread his trace
Nor my desyres that saile againste the winde
nor yett my death, depainted in her face
Nor yett my hope ready to suffer wracke
with broken masts devoyde off sayle or sturne
Nor all the cares that do surcharge my Backe
nor that straunge flame wherwith my vaines do burn
Nor all my teares lett fall to quench that fire

(Love among the Ruins)

And suddenly the clocks rang out sang down the empty corridors
the lovers are aroused from their sleep.
It seemed the wind had blown the tender leaves like silver flecks
the tender leaves like silver flecks
against the sunlit belly of the wood.

East the ashy incense of summer
drifts across the lawn.
The couples just remember
lusty birds singing in the hedgerow at sunrise
singing till sound pierced to limbs slackly tumbled
in the abattoirs and coy fanes of love.

Yff other love then yours do lodge within my Breste
let never pleasinge thought henceforth frequent my mynde
Or iff my constante hope elswhere do seke for reste
let my desyres in vayne still stryve agaynst the winde
Or if my vowed faith be ever founde untrue
let all the fruits I reape be rygor for good will
Or yf I doe adore another Saynte then yow
let me in restles toile loose all my labour still
Or iff that daungers dreade my lykinge can decaye
let then my faintinge harte be shrynde in fowle defame

Whom love commaundes and holdes as humble thrall
Transformed is each daye to sundry formes
I lyke ytt nott but cannott doo with all
For he that loves must needes endure those stormes
I first of all was chaungde into a harte;
Within whose flancke the murtheringe shafte did lye
Then to a swanne that syngs the dolefull parte,
Which doth presage the tyme that he muste dye
Then to a springe as cleare as cristall glasse
And by myne eyes I dyd unlade the same
The Salamander after that I was
Who loves to bath amydste the burninge flame

When I complayne I doo butt fayne
my passyon ys noo inwarde griefe
I sporte withall when I doo call
The Gods of love to my releefe

Whylste from myne eyes the forste teares ryse
in secrete to my selfe I smyle
Butt that to lett deepe syghes I fett
as thoughe my harte woulde breake the while

I never fownde so sure a grownde
to purchase grace as newe devyse
To merytt oughte ytt proffitts noughte
butt as a hazard on the deyce

To women kinde a dowble mynde
fitts beste to maintayne sporte and game

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXXXIII

I.

The heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me;
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

II.

But how, my Delia! will you meet
The man you 'ave lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?

III.

Will you in ev'ry look declare
Your heart is still the same,
And heal each idly anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?

IV.

Thus, Delia! thus I paint the scene