Now that you would leave me
And another woo,
Was it you that told me once
Lovers should be true?

Was it you that told me
Lovers should be true?—
Dear, I still believe in love,
But no more—in you!

Now springes the spray,
All for love I am so seek
That slepen I ne may.

Als I me rode this endre day
O' my pleyinge,
Seih I whar a litel may
Began to singe,
" The clot him clinge!
Way es him i' love-longinge
Shall libben ay!"

Son I herde that mirye note,
Thider I drogh:
I fonde hire in an herber swot
Under a bogh,
With joye inogh.
Son I asked, " Thou mirye may,
Why singes tou ay?"

Than answerde that maiden swote
Midde wordes lewe,
My lemman me traves bihot
Of love trewe:
He chaunges anewe.

Now art thou fair, Diodorus,
And ripe for love thou art,
E'en should'st thou wed a woman,
From thee we'll not depart.

Not lips of mine have ever said:
" Would God that I were dead! "
Nay, cruel griefs! ye cannot break
My love of life; nor can ye make
Oblivion blest in any wise,
Nor death seem sweet for sorrow's sake.
Life! life! my every pulse outcries
For life, and love, and quickened breath,
O God, — not, not for death!

Not in works or vain endeavors,
To fulfill a broken law,
Not in empty forms and fashions
From which some their comfort draw:
But in God, who ever liveth
And who ever loves to bless
All who in His mercy trusteth,
All who do His Christ confess.

Faith in God who loves the sinner,
Trust in Christ who died to save,
Simply taking what He offers,
Just accepting what He gave.
Brings at once the glad assurance
Of forgiveness by His grace,
Full acceptance in His favor,
And among His sons a place.

Not caring to observe the wind,
Or the new sea explore,
Snatched from myself, how far behind
Already I behold the shore!

May not a thousand dangers sleep
In the smooth bosom of this deep?
No; 'tis so rockless and so clear,
That the rich bottom does appear,
Paved all with precious things, not torn
From shipwrecked vessels, but there born.

Sweetness, truth, and every grace
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The eye may in a moment reach,
And read distinctly in her face.

Some other nymphs, with colours faint,

A Nosegay, lacking flowers fresh,
To you now I do send;
Desiring you to look thereon,
When that you may intend:
For flowers fresh begin to fade,
And Boreas in the field
Even with his hard congealid frost
No better flowers doth yield.

But if that winter could have sprung
A sweeter flower than this,
I would have sent it presently
To you withouten miss:
Accept this then as time doth serve,

Noon on the mountain!—
And all the crags are husky faces powerful with love for the sun;
All the shadows
Whisper of the sun.

None is happy, free from care
In this world, an't be not he
Who in love has ne'er a share,
And who shuns in love to be.
Troubled not with sighs his breath —
Sighs of yearning that to death
Bring full many who have earned,
But receive not, love's caress.
He by passion is not burned,
Such as that which I confess
Is my furnace of distress.

No , 'tis in vain to seek for bliss;
For bliss can ne'er be found
'Till we arrive where Jesus is,
And tread on heav'nly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;
Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis heav'Non earth to taste his love,
To feel his quick'ning grace;
And all the Heav'n I hope above
Is but to see his face.