I.

Why still, such Swearing, Fawning, Lying,
Talking of Killing, and no Dying?
Looking so sad, her Smiles to gain,
Thinking her Pity more to move,
More to compel her to Disdain,
And gain her Scorn instead of Love:

II.

With sensless Speeches, scurvy Faces,
To get a Proud, Young Maid's good Graces;
Like Beggars you, by th' Canting Tone,
With which you'd gain her Charity,
Provoke her more, to show you none,
And make your Pray'r her Grant deny:

III.

Her Pity for you, less Provoking,

My Love and Wit, at once to show,
Verse, without Gold, I send you now;
He can't be, for a Wit allow'd
Who, with his Gold, with which he wou'd
Make his Dame Humble, makes her Proud;
Makes her more Rich, himself more Poor,
To make her scorn his Love yet more;
Then, with our Gold, or Gems, to part,
To gain a Mistress's Proud Heart,
Wou'd our Design on her prevent,
So prove our Wit's Disparagement;
By what we'd make our Dame more sure,
More Rivals in her to procure;
Make her the greater Fortune so,
That more might her Pretenders grow,

With me, Dear Celia , do not thou find fau't,
For Jealousie, by which, I've only thought
Worse of my self, as better still of thee,
Who think thee but too great a Good, to be
Engross'd still, by so mean a Wretch as me;
Who, but less shou'd, my Value for you prove,
To think I were the sole, who thee cou'd Love,
Or th' only, who cou'd thee, to Liking move;
Since my Love, more sure, wou'd wrong thine, and thee,
To think, none else cou'd Love thee well, but me;
And if that others Love you, as I do,
Unjust, Ungrateful, must I think you too,

Say not, my Love, I do not to thee prove,
Because I give thee nothing for thy Love;
That thou most undervalued art by me,
Because, I ne'er a Bargain made for thee;
I ne'er ('tis true,) prophan'd thy Love with Hire,
Because, bought Slaves, and Beggars, none admire;
I, like a Deity, have treated thee,
Pray'rs, Tears, Vows, Faith, thou long hast had from me,
Honour, Devotion, Adoration too,
Which more my Love does, than my Money show;
Money, but Love's Disparagement wou'd prove,
I gave thee nothing, more to prove my Love;

Star , whose fair light doth more and more excel
As light grows dimmer; but at birth of sun,
O'ertaken by the flame thou didst forerun,
Fadest as things obscure grow visible:
Men call thee Star of Love, and name thee well,
Thinking on tenderness of Love begun
'Neath throbbing Hesper, or in dawn undone
At beckoning Phosphor's sign inexorable.
And light of Love is like the light of thee,
Paired not with peer among the immortal host,
Or partner with a less transcendent flame;
Brightest when all around him darkens most,

To him, who symbol of his empire shows
By the inverted brand's declining flame,
Love, spent with wayfaring, in twilight came,
And said, I weary, and would taste repose.
Do thou, whose vigilant eye must never close,
Governing thy viewless shafts' incessant aim,
Guard me, and from thy brother's realm reclaim
When bathed in orient light my planet throes.
And so it was, Love slumbered and arose,
But, parting, bore his comrade's torch away;
Soon in Death's numbing hand his own expired:
Now earth is empty of his joys and woes,

I.

If I must die, for, or by thee,
To Love, or Rage, my Life resign;
No matter which way 'tis to be,
By your own Passion, or by mine:

II.

Since you cause me to die for Love,
Your fiercest Rage, can do no more;
Your Anger, my Relief wou'd prove,
Put me, by Death, out of your Pow'r;

III.

Out of your Pow'r, out of my Pain,
By your kind Hatred, shou'd I be,
Less by your Love, than your Disdain,

Joy is there made for all, transparent tide
Of earth-embathing air, sun's general light,
Sea, legioned stars, fields variously bright,
And in a common country common pride:
And joy to human multitudes denied,
But solitary meed of soul of might,
Pacing in lone content the silent height,
Save by his own thought unaccompanied:
Joy, too, not made for many or for one;
Flashing, as when the flying iron rings
Sharp on smit stone beside the paven way,
As Love to Love in exultation springs:
As fades the star of morn in morning's sun,

[ AFTER DR. JOWETT'S SERMON ]

Together , Prophets, have ye trodden earth,
Happy that neither might the other know:
Else what so huge as the Homeric flow
Of the great Hebrew's rich compassionate mirth
At the great Tinker's frenzy? save the dearth
Of Bunyan's charity for Heaven's foe,
Spilth of the Patmian's seven-vialled woe,
A living death! an inauspicious birth!
Now are the souls wrought of such diverse woof,

You shou'd not call me less a Lover, for
My loving many, which shows my Love more;
Nor shou'd my Love for all give one Offence,
Who love all always, with Indifference;
My Love's more, as I love to more profess,
Who, did I not love all, shou'd love one less;
So my Love to thee, but the more I prove,
As I before did the more Women love;
By which, I show thee, that I love thee best,
Who trying all, love thee more than the rest,
So by my Change, prove to thee constantest;
If others lesser Charms I had not prov'd,
Thee so well as I do, I ne'r had lov'd;