The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best, which is the first, Then be not coy, but use your time, THE BLEEDING HAND; OR THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID. FROM this bleeding hand of mine, Take this sprig of Eglantine, Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets, shall prove Many thorns to be in love. TO THE WILLOW-TREE. THOU art to all lost love the best, When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, When with neglect, the lover's bane, For their lost love, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee. And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night. THE KISS.-A DIALOGUE. 1. AMONG thy fancies tell me this, It is a creature born and bred Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 2. It is an active flame, that flies, First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies, Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. 2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, now here, now there; 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near, Chor. And here, and there, and every where. 1. Has it a speaking virtue? 2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say? 2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; Chor. And this Love's sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body? 2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And as it flies, it gently sings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. FROM "WIT RESTORED," 1658. THE PRINCIPAL WRITERS IN "WIT RESTORED WERE, SIR JOHN MEMNIS, born 1598, died 1670; and TO B. R., IN RETURN FOR HER BRACELET. "Tis not that soft and silken wreath, 'Tis not those beams, your hairs, nor all Nor any angel could deny Yet I do not so much adore The temple, but the goddess more. If, then, my soul you would confine The hands of death shall ne'er unloose. EDMUND WALLER, Born 1605, died 1687. TO AMORET. AMORET, the milky way, Framed of many nameless stars! The smooth stream, where none can say He this drop to that prefers! Amoret, my lovely foe! Tell me where thy strength does lie? Where the power that charms us so ? In thy soul, or in thy eye? H |