Down Newport Street, last Sunday night,
Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast:
She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight,
And Bill strode on like one possessed.

O Love's a curse to them that's young;
'Twas all because of love and drink;
Why couldn't the silly hold her tongue,
Or stop, before she spoke, to think?

She played with fire, did pretty Nell,
So Bill must hang ere summer's here:
Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell
Through love, and poverty and beer!

Do you love me
Or do you not?
You told me once

Do I love thee? Ask the bee
If she loves the flowery lea,
Where the honeysuckle blows
And the fragrant clover grows.
——As she answers, Yes or No,
——Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the bird
When her matin song is heard,
If she loves the sky so fair,
Fleecy cloud and liquid air.
——As she answers, Yes or No,
——Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower
If she loves the vernal shower,
Or the kisses of the sun,
Or the dew, when day is done.
——As she answers, Yes or No,

Disrobe, my love.
Since it has been such
a long time since the time
of miracles. Disrobe.
And let miracles begin.
I am speechless
before you.
Your body speaks all languages.

The dim light to the sou'ward
Is the beacon of the coast,
But the white light to the leeward
The mariner loves most.
And whether 'tis the dim light
Or the white light to the lee,
That great big hunk of daylight
Is light of lights for me.
But what it is of all lights
That fills my soul with glee,
Is when that hunk of daylight
Climbs up out of the sea.

The die is cast, and we must part,
Forgive me if I say we must;
Must make again exchange of heart,
But never more exchange of trust.
With faces cold and stern must meet,
While inward fires consume our souls,
Must pass as strangers in the street,
While o'er our hope the death bell tolls.

We met but a short while ago,
And all my sky was clouded o'er
You loved, and scattered all my woe,
Loved as I ne'er was loved before.
You taught my hungry heart to hope,
And filled love's chaliee to the brim,

1

The dew it trembles on the thorn
Then vanishes so love is born
Young love that speaks in silent thought
'Till scorned, then withers and is nought

2

The pleasure of a single hour
The blooming of a single flower
The glitter of the morning dew
Such is young love when it is new

3

The twitter of the wild birds wing
The murmur of the bees
Lays of hay crickets when they sing
Or other things more frail than these

4

Such is young love when silence speaks
Till weary with the joy it seeks

Desponding Phyllis was endu'd
With ev'ry Talent of a Prude,
She trembled when a Man drew near;
Salute her, and she turn'd her Ear:
If o'er against her you were plac'd
She durst not look above your Waist;
She'd rather take you to her Bed
Than let you see her dress her Head;
In Church you heard her through the Crowd
Repeat the Absolution loud;
In Church, secure behind her Fan
She durst behold that Monster, Man:
There practic'd how to place her Head,
And bit her Lips to make them red:

Or on the Mat devoutly kneeling

Deceav'd and undeceav'd to be
At once I seek with equal care,
Wretched in the discovery,
Happy if cozen'd still I were:
Yet certain ill of ill hath lesse
Then the mistrust of happinesse.

But if when I have reach'd my Aime,
(That which I seek less worthy prove,)
Yet still my Love remains the same,
The subject not deserving Love;
I can no longer be excus'd,
Now more in fault as less abus'd.

Then let me flatter my Desires,
And doubt what I might know too sure,
He that to cheat himself conspires,

Death may be very gentle after all:
He turns his face away from arrogant knights
Who fling themselves against him in their fights;
But to the loveliest he loves to call.
And he has with him those whose ways were mild
And beautiful; and many a little child.