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So much thyself does in me live,
"Tis but to change that piece of gold for this,
And, that full weight too may be had,
THE LONG LIFE.
LOVE from Time's wings hath stolen the feathers,
The various motions of the turning year
Belong not now at all to me:
Each summer's night does Lucy's now appear,
How long a space since first I loved it is!
And am surprised with wonder when I miss
The'old Patriarchs' age, and not their happiness too,
Sure those are happy people that complain
If when your gift, long life, I disapprove,
I too ingrateful seem to be;
Punish me justly, Heaven; make her to love,
And then 'twill be too short for me.
GENTLY, ah gently, madam, touch
The wound which you yourself have made; That pain must needs be very much, Which makes me of your hand afraid.
Cordials of pity give me now,
For I too weak for purgings grow.
Do but a while with patience stay
Perhaps the physic's good you give,
But ne'er to me can useful prove ;
Even thy dissuasions me persuade,
Thy tongue comes in, as if it meant
But different far was his intent,
For straight the traitor took their part ; And by this new foe I'm bereft
Of all that little which was left.
The act, I must confess, was wise
RESOLVED TO BE BELOVED.
'Tis true, l'ave loved already three or four, And shall three or four hundred more; I'll love each fair-one that I see,
Till I find one at last that shall love me.
That shall my Canaan be, the fatal soil
The country does with milk and honey flow.
The needle trembles so, and turns about,
But constant then and fix'd does prove, Fix'd, that his dearest pole as soon may move.
Then may my vessel torn and shipwreck'd be,
It never more abroad shall roam,
Though 't could next voyage bring the Indies home.
But I must sweat in love, and labour yet,
They're slothful fools who leave a trade,
Variety I ask not; give me one
To live perpetually upon;
FOR Heaven's sake, what d' you mean to do? Keep me, or let me go, one of the two;
Youth and warm hours let me not idly lose,
The little time that Love does choose;
Let me be gone whilst yet 'tis day;
'Tis dismal, one so long to love
In vain, till to love more as vain must prove;
Too weary to take others be:
Alas! 'tis folly to remain,
And waste our army thus in vain, Before a city which will ne'er be ta'en.
At several hopes wisely to fly, Ought not to be esteem'd inconstancy; "Tis more inconstant always to pursue
A thing that always flies from you;
When it does hardness meet, and pride,
By Heaven, I'll tell her boldly that 'tis she;
The Gods may give their altars o'er;
The lightning, which tall oaks oppose in vain,
The humble furzes of the plain.
She being so high, and I so low,
Her power by this does greater show,
Who at such a distance gives so sure a blow.
Compared with her, all things so worthless prove, That nought on earth can towards her move, Till 't be exalted by her love.
Equal to her, alas! there's none;
She like a Deity is grown;
That must create, or else must be alone.
If there be man who thinks himself so high
As to pretend equality,
He deserves her less than I;
For he would cheat for his relief;
And one would give, with lesser grief, To' an undeserving beggar than a thief.
No; thou'rt a fool, I'll swear, if e'er thou grant :