That none beguiled be by times quick flowing,
Lovers have in their hearts a clock still going;
For though time be nimble, his motions
Are quicker
And thicker
Where love hath his notions:

Hope is the main-spring on which moves desire,
And these do the less wheels, Fear, Joy, inspire;
The ballance is thought, evermore
Clicking
And striking,
And ne're giving o're.

Occasion's the hand which still's moving round,
Till by it the critical hour may be found,
And when that falls out, it will strike
Kisses,
Strange blisses,

That learned Graecian (who did so excell)
In Knowledge passing Sense, that hee is nam'd
Of all the after-Worlds Divine ) doth tell,
That at the Time when first our Soules are fram'd,
Ere in these Mansions blinde they come to dwell,
They live bright Rayes of that Eternall Light ,
And others see, know, love, in Heavens great Hight,
Not toylde with ought to Reason doth rebell;
Most true it is, for straight at the first Sight
My Minde mee told, that in some other Place
It elsewhere saw the Idea of that Face,

That gusty spring, each afternoon
—By the ivied cot I passed,
And noted at that lattice soon
—Her fair face downward cast;
Still in the same place seated there,
So diligent, so very fair.

Oft-times I said I knew her not,
—Yet that way round would go,
Until, when evenings lengthened out,
—And bloomed the may-hedge row,
I met her by the wayside well,
Whose waters, maybe, broke the spell.

For, leaning on her pail, she prayed,
—I'd lift it to her head.
So did I; but I'm much afraid
—Some wasteful drops were shed,

Tell me, lovely, loving pair!
Why so kind, and so severe?
Why so careless of our care,
Only to yourselves so dear?

By this cunning change of hearts,
You the power of love control;
While the boy's deluded darts
Can arrive at neither soul.

For in vain to either breast
Still beguiled love does come,
Where he finds a foreign guest,
Neither of your hearts at home.

Debtors thus with like design,
When they never mean to pay,
That they may the law decline,
To some friend make all away.

Teach me to love? Go, teach thyself more wit:
I chief professor am of it.
Teach craft to Scots and thrift to Jews;
Teach boldness to the stews;
In tyrants' courts teach supple flattery;
Teach Jesuits, that have travelled far, to lie;
Teach fire to burn and winds to blow;
Teach restless fountains how to flow;
Teach the dull earth, fixed, to abide;
Teach womankind inconstancy and pride;
See if your diligence here will useful prove:
But, prithee, teach not me to love.

The god of love, if such a thing there be,

Take all of me, — I am thine own, heart, soul,
Brain, body, — all; all that I am or dream
Is thine forever; yea, though space should teem
With thy conditions, I'd fulfil the whole —
Were to fulfil them to be loved of thee.
Oh, love me! — were to love me but a way
To kill me — love me; so to die would be
To live forever. Let me hear thee say
Once only, " Dear, I love thee, " — then all life
Would be one sweet remembrance, thou its king:
Nay, thou art that already, and the strife
Of twenty worlds could not uncrown thee. Bring,

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed,
Whose deeds both great and small
Are close-knit strands of an unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells,
The Book of Life the slurring record tells.

Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,
After its own like working. A child's kiss
Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest.

A sweet " No! no! " with a sweet smile beneath
Becomes an honest girl, — I'd have you learn it;
As for plain, " Yes! " it may be said, i' faith,
Too plainly and too soft, — pray, well discern it!

Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you;
But that in suffering me to take it, sweet!
I'd have you say — " No! no! I will not let you! "

Sweet in goodly fellowship
Tastes red wine and rare O!
But to kiss a girl's ripe lip
Is a gift more fair O!
Yet a gift more sweet, more fine,
Is the lyre of Maro!
While these three good gifts were mine,
I'd not change with Pharaoh.

Bacchus wakes within my breast
Love and love's desire,
Venus comes and stirs the blessed
Rage of Phaebus' fire;
Deathless honor is our due
From the laureled sire:
Woe should I turn traitor to
Wine and love and lyre!

Should a tyrant rise and say,
" Give up wine! " I'd do it;

Sweet, at this morn I chancid
To peep into the chamber; lo! I glancid,
And saw white sheets thy whiter skin disclosing,
And soft-sweet cheek on pillow soft reposing;
Then said, " Were I that pillow,
Dear, for thy love I would not wear the willow."