Alas, for the blight of my fancies!
 Alas, for the fall of my pride!
I planned, in my girlish romances,
 To be a philosopher's bride.

I pictured him learned and witty,
 The sage and the lover combined,
Not scorning to say I was pretty,
 Nor only adoring my mind .

No elderly, spectacled Mentor,
 But one who would worship and woo;
Perhaps I might take an inventor,
 Or even a poet would do.

And tender and gay and well-favoured,
 My fate overtook me at last:
I saw, and I heard, and I wavered,

This morn thy gallant bark, love,
Sailed on a sunny sea;
'Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! Ah woe! Ah woe!
By spirits of the deep
He's cradled on the billow
To his unwaking sleep.

Thou liest upon the shore, love,
Beside the knelling surge,
But sea-nymphs evermore, love,
Shall sadly chaunt thy dirge.
Oh come! Oh come! Oh come!
Ye spirits of the deep,
While near his seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.

From far across the sea, love,
I hear a wild lament,

Love came to me one morn in May,
Bringing all glad things on his way,
" Lo, here are Autumn and Summer and Spring,
All three seasons in one I bring. "
He spake me smooth,
And he sware for sooth,
That his gold was good, and his troth was truth.
Alack, the day!
Heigho, Sing Sorrow!
Man sows in vain what he reaps with pain,
And the joy once gone shall be never again
Heigho, Sing Sorrow!
'Tis ever thus
Love deals with us;
Builds his bower for to-day, and then flies away
To-morrow.

I gave him all in my garden's girth,

I knew a strong man,
And he dwelt mid the hills where the swift streams ran,
For he loved to live where his life began.
But they took him away, and made him abide
Where the great streets darken and chafe and chide
With their ceaseless tide,
And he mourned for the hills which mourned for the man,
So he sickened and died.

I knew a weak bird,
And she sang in the woods where her song was first heard,
For she loved the bowers by her young wing stirred.
But they caught her away, and made her abide
In a cage where she sang not, but often cried

Love , and the Gout invade the idle Brain,
Bus'ness prevents the Passion, and the Pain:
Ceres, and Bacchus, envious of our Ease,
Blow up the Flame, and heighten the Disease.
Withdraw the Fewel, and the Fire goes out;
Hard Beds, and Fasting, cure both Love and Gout.

For love Appollo (his Godhead set aside)
Was servant to the kyng of Thessaley,
Whose daughter was so pleasant in his eye,
That bothe his harpe and sawtrey he defide,
And bagpipe solace of the rurall bride,
Did puffe and blowe and on the holtes hy,
His cattell kept with that rude melody.
And oft eke him that doth the heavens gyde
Hath love transformed to shapes for him too base.
Transmuted thus sometime a swan is he,
Leda taccoye, and oft Europe to please,
A milde white bull, unwrinckled front and face,

I'm weary of this tedious dull deceit;
Myself I torture, while the world I cheat.
Tho' Prudence bids me strive to guard my flame,
Love sees the low hypocrisy with shame;
Love bids me all confess, and call thee mine,
Worthy my heart, as I am worthy thine:
Weakness for thee I will no longer hide;
Weakness for thee is woman's noblest pride.

When summer even softly dies,
When summer winds are free,
A thousand lamps, a thousand eyes,
Shall glimmer in the sea:
O look how large, behind, below,
The lucid creatures glance and glow!
They strew with soft and fiery foam
Her streaming way from home to home.

So shines the deep, but high above,
Beyond the cloudy bars,
The old infinity of love
Looks silent from the stars:—
When parted friends no more avail
Those sleepless watchers shall not fail,
They learn her looks, they list her sighs,

The snow has gone from Zhongnan; spring is almost come
Lovely in the distance its blue colors, against the brown of the streets.
A thousand coaches, ten thousand horsemen pass down the Nine Roads;
Turns his head and looks at the mountains — not one man!

Fill me my Wine in Cristall; thus, and thus
I see't in's puris naturalibus :
Unmixt. I love to have it smirke and shine,
'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throtle Wine.
What Mad-man's he, that when it sparkles so,
Will coole his flames, or quench his fires with snow?